Yin Yao didn't know how many days had passed since the second time he "woke up" as a child. Time in this place flowed like water dripping in an hourglass—slowly, quietly, and with no clear end.
He didn't dare ask his mother. Didn't dare look for anyone who could give him an explanation. There was only one thing he was certain of: he had died. Twice. Once in an accident. The other time, right in this very house. Both times, he came back.
This time, he didn't plan on making the same mistake again.
He woke up earlier every morning. He memorized every detail. He observed the location of objects. He learned to recognize the moments that would lead to disaster. All of these things, a ten-year-old would never do—but he did.
When his mother's voice rang out from downstairs:
> "Yin Yao! Help me make some tea!"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked slowly down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom step, looking toward the kitchen counter. The kettle was in its usual place, too high for a child to reach. And this time, the stool was gone.
He looked around. Not in a hurry. Not in a hurry.
He pulled the low table in the dining room closer, climbed up, held the kettle with both hands, and set it down on the counter. Everything went smoothly, without a sound.
When his mother came in, she was a little surprised.
> "Oh, you got it down? Be careful, don't do anything dangerous yourself."
He just nodded.
His heart was beating fast, not out of fear but out of relief. For the first time, he felt like he had done the right thing.
---
The whole day passed like a familiar song. He went to school, greeted his friends, did his homework, and then came home. He helped his mother cook, cleaned up, and went to bed earlier than usual. He imagined sleeping for a long time—no longer being dragged back to that cold starting point.
But then, the challenge did not come from the old place.
---
Three days later.
It started raining in the afternoon, lasting until evening. His mother asked him to go to the back warehouse to get an umbrella to take to work tomorrow morning. A simple task. He did not suspect anything.
The old warehouse was behind the kitchen, the ceiling low, the familiar smell of mold. In front of the door were a few tiles that were slightly crooked, rainwater seeping through the gaps, creating a small puddle.
He tiptoed in, afraid of getting his feet wet. The room was dark, only the dim light of the hallway shining in. He turned on his phone's flashlight. A faint streak of light swept across the old wooden cabinets. The umbrella was at the top of the shelf.
> "Just pull it out gently," he muttered.
He reached out, stood on tiptoe, and his fingertips touched the handle of the umbrella. But then—
Swoosh!
Something slithered across the tin roof, crashing down in front of him. A large, wet-furred rat slid down the crossbar and landed right next to his shoulder.
He jerked back in surprise. His hand hit an old wooden box that was lying crookedly on the shelf. The box fell, hitting him squarely on the forehead. The impact wasn't too strong, but it suddenly made him lose his balance.
His feet slipped on the wet stone floor. His back hit the ground.
> "Ah…!"
His eyes widened. The sound of the flashlight falling and breaking. Everything went dark.
He tried to sit up, but the pain in his neck spread to his shoulder, then to his chest. His heart started to pound. It beat faster and faster, then stopped as if someone was squeezing it.
> "No… I dodged it this time but… I can't…"
He put his hand on his chest. His breathing was rapid. Sweat poured out like rain in the middle of winter.
The cold from the tiled floor seemed to seep into his bones. He couldn't keep his eyes open. All senses blurred.
> "It's just… an umbrella… how did it turn out like this…"
Then he heard nothing more.
---
White.
That light again.
No pain. No emotions.
Just the familiar wooden ceiling, the small door slightly open, the morning light shining in through the thin curtains. The faint smell of early morning porridge.
And… that voice:
> "Yin Yao! Come down and have breakfast!"
He opened his eyes. Everything was the same. Too similar, too complete.
He didn't jump up.
He just lay there, his hands clutching the bedsheets.
No more anger. No more panic. Just a quiet despair eating away at him.
> "I tried… I did the right thing… but why… still can't escape…?"
A thought crept in like smoke:
> "Is this… a trap? A prison? A game?"
He sat up slowly, as if carrying the age of the world with him.
> "If it's not my fault… then what is it?"
He walked to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out an old notebook. He wrote down the first line:
> "Day 3. Avoided mistakes in the kitchen. Successful change."
"Day 6. Died in the warehouse. Cause: Fallen wooden box, startled mouse."
"Conjecture: Reaction loop for every choice. Even the smallest mistake counts as failure."
The page trembled in his hands.
> "If I keep going… and dying… and coming back to life… when will it ever end?"
He had no answer.
There was only one thing he was beginning to understand: this place was unforgiving.