Wang Lin remained seated for a long while on the edge of his bed after getting up.
He was not doing anything in particular. He was not even actively thinking. He simply let time pass, observing the way his body occupied space, as if trying to reinhabit it. Each second seemed to demand his consent to continue, as though the world hesitated to move forward without his explicit confirmation.
Eventually, he stood up.
His movements were measured, almost cautious. Not out of fear of falling, but because of a more diffuse concern—the fear of triggering something unintentionally. An absurd, irrational sensation, which he dismissed at once.
He ran a hand over his face, checked the blindfold one last time.
Tight enough.
At the proper height.
Nothing abnormal.
He took a deep breath, opened his bedroom door, and stepped into the hallway.
The house was calm, but not silent. There were those discreet, familiar sounds one only notices when paying attention: the distant hum of the refrigerator, the muffled ticking of the living room clock, the faint creak of wood beneath his steps.
Everything was in its place.
And yet, Wang Lin had the fleeting impression that the house was watching him. Not like a living being, but like a structure aware of his presence, attentive to each of his movements. A ridiculous thought, which he brushed aside immediately.
He went downstairs.
The smell of the kitchen reached him before he even entered. A simple, reassuring scent: warm eggs, toasted bread, a trace of coffee. A smell that belonged to morning, to routine, to normalcy.
Uncle Wang stood near the stove, sleeves rolled up, back slightly hunched more by habit than by age. He cracked eggs with precise gestures, repeated thousands of times over the years.
"Up already," he said without turning around. "You're going to be late."
His voice was deep, steady, anchored in reality. It carried no trace of concern, no suspicious variation. Just the continuation of an immutable daily life.
"I'm coming," Wang Lin replied.
He sat at the table, placed his hands flat on the wood. The contact felt sharper than usual. The surface was cold, solid, indisputably real.
His uncle set a plate in front of him.
"Eat. You look like someone who didn't sleep."
Wang Lin nodded, picked up his chopsticks, and brought a bite to his mouth.
The taste was normal.
The texture too.
And yet, he chewed longer than necessary. As if his body were analyzing each sensation before accepting it. As if it feared that something invisible might be hidden within.
"You okay?" his uncle asked without looking up.
"Yeah."
A simple lie. Almost automatic.
His uncle nodded, as though he had never doubted the answer.
"Liang Feng shouldn't be long," he added. "You've got an exam today, right?"
The name echoed in Wang Lin's mind with particular clarity.
Liang Feng.
His childhood friend. His neighbor. The one who had always been there, never asking unnecessary questions. A stable presence. A fixed point in a world that changed too quickly.
"He's already on the way?" Wang Lin asked.
"Probably. He's rarely late."
As if to confirm those words, there was a knock at the door.
Three quick knocks. Energetic.
"I'll get it," Uncle Wang said.
The door opened almost immediately.
"Good morning, Uncle Wang!"
Liang Feng's voice carried through the house with its usual lightness. Lively, clear, almost too bright for a winter morning.
He stepped into the kitchen, bag slung over his shoulder, an open smile on his face. Same uniform. Same relaxed posture. Same quiet confidence.
"Hey, Wang Lin."
"Hey."
They looked at each other for a fraction of a second too long.
Something passed between them. Not a formulated thought. Rather, a mute recognition. A shared dissonance, imperceptible to anyone else.
Liang Feng blinked.
"You look weird today."
"So do you."
A pause.
Then Liang Feng burst out laughing.
"Great argument."
They sat down.
The meal continued.
The gestures were mechanical. The words few. Uncle Wang talked about trivial things: the weather, work, the traffic expected later in the day. Nothing important. Nothing threatening.
And yet, Liang Feng frowned slightly. He placed a hand on his chest, as if he had felt a fleeting pull.
"Doesn't it ever feel strange to you?" he asked suddenly.
"What?" Wang Lin replied.
"The air. The world. Like everything's a little too… quiet. Not physically. Something else."
Wang Lin's chopsticks froze midair.
"Yeah," he admitted after a second. "A little."
Uncle Wang looked up, observed them briefly.
"You're talking nonsense this early in the morning. Finish eating. You're going to be late."
Liang Feng nodded, but his gaze drifted toward the window.
The sky was visible from there.
A pale blue. Uniform. Without clouds.
A blue that did not change.
The meal ended without further words.
The bowls were left in the sink. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Uncle Wang put on his coat and grabbed his keys.
"Hurry up. The bus won't wait for you."
They stepped outside.
The outdoor air struck them immediately.
Cold. Dry. Motionless.
The neighborhood street stretched out before them, familiar to the point of boredom: gray apartment buildings aligned without grace, storefronts still closed, a few hurried pedestrians, the distant rumble of the main road.
An ordinary morning.
Too ordinary.
Wang Lin instinctively looked up.
The sky.
Still that fixed, artificial blue, without depth. Not a cloud. Not a shift in light. Like a painted canvas stretched too perfectly above the world.
"Did you see the sky?" Liang Feng murmured.
"Yeah."
Their footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. Too distinctly. As if the air no longer absorbed them.
They walked side by side, in silence. Each passerby seemed hurried, absorbed in their own trajectory, unaware of the diffuse sensation slowly settling into the atmosphere.
They reached the intersection at the end of the street.
The pedestrian light blinked. Red.
They stopped.
Around them, the city continued to move: a car passed, a cyclist braked, a woman spoke into her phone. Normal sounds. Normal gestures.
Then—
The sky cracked.
It was not an explosion.
It was not lightning.
It was a clean break.
A sharp, deep, unreal sound, as if a gigantic sheet of glass had just shattered above the world.
The pedestrian light went dark.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
The air became heavy.
Authoritative.
Each breath demanded conscious effort.
Wang Lin felt his lungs protest.
The artificial blue fractured, revealing behind it a moving, dense darkness, streaked with impossible flows.
A living abyss.
Screams erupted.
The ground vibrated.
And above them, something began to descend.
The world had just lost its right to ignorance