I feel like my work is like the night the comet came. In the very end, every story seems to have come from somewhere. One day, Xixi Fu Bookstore gave me a momentary feeling of time and space slipping out of joint. I picked up a book from the shelf, Flowers Fall, How Many Know? by San Mao. Surprised, I put it back, but when I turned around to look for it again, I couldn't find it anywhere. I casually mentioned it to a friend: could another version of me from a different timeline have taken the book? A flashback of the moment reminds me how I felt when I picked it up, and I remember the title, but I simply couldn't find that book. I was anxious and uneasy. There were clearly several copies, yet not one could be found. I had just walked from one side of the shelf to the other. And so, my story began here. That very night, I came up with the first story in the book: Dog Jin.
