That morning, Zhou Qiming was three minutes late.
It wasn't because he overslept.
It wasn't because he had an accident on the way.
He knew very well that he had left home at his usual time.
Even a little earlier than usual.
But when he swiped his card to enter the company, the machine beeped, and the time displayed on the screen was already past nine o'clock.
He glanced at the gate.
Then he glanced at his phone.
The time matched.
No error.
He frowned slightly, but didn't linger for long, and went inside anyway.
Being three minutes late wasn't a big deal.
Here, there are many ways to be late.
Sometimes it's traffic.
Sometimes it's the system.
Sometimes, nobody cares.
He sat back down at his workstation, and just as he put on his headphones, a message from his supervisor came through.
[Supervisor]: Pay attention to efficiency today.
[Supervisor]: The system is currently running a comparison test.
He replied with an "Okay."
No further explanation.
A system pop-up window appeared, indicating a slightly higher workload than yesterday.
It seemed like compensation.
He started working.
At first, everything went smoothly.
Judgment, checkmarks, submit.
The actions were almost automatic.
Until the tenth or so task, he suddenly realized he had missed an image.
Not that he misread it.
He simply hadn't realized that image existed.
The system had automatically moved on to the next task.
He scrolled back.
That task was marked "Processed."
The result was correct.
But he couldn't remember when he had seen it.
This feeling made him pause.
It was brief.
So brief that his colleague next to him hadn't even noticed.
He put his headphones back on and continued.
Before noon, this happened twice more.
Each time was subtle.
So subtle that he couldn't be sure if he had been daydreaming.
But accumulated, it became a very uncomfortable feeling.
It was as if someone had walked a short distance for him without his notice.
And that distance was walked perfectly without any problems.
At lunchtime, he specifically checked the time.
It was exactly noon.
The cafeteria was crowded.
As he carried his tray to find a seat, he suddenly realized he had been standing still for a while, lost in thought.
It wasn't daydreaming.
It was more like his actions had been paused for a moment.
He looked down at his tray.
The food was still warm.
Nothing seemed amiss.
But when he sat down, he had a strange feeling—
He seemed to have already sat here once before.
This thought made his heart skip a beat.
He immediately suppressed it.
His work in the afternoon went even smoother than in the morning.
A little too smoothly.
Tasks were completed one after another.
The system stopped giving him efficiency warnings.
But he found it increasingly difficult to recall exactly what he had done.
It wasn't amnesia.
Rather, the process left no trace.
It was like watching a pre-edited video.
The important parts were all there.
The middle parts were gone.
Around 3 PM, a system notification suddenly popped up.
[Reminder]
Please confirm your current status.
It was a very ordinary pop-up.
Normally, everyone would just click "confirm."
Zhou Qiming stared at it for a few seconds.
His face was reflected on the screen.
His expression was flat.
He clicked "confirm."
The pop-up disappeared.
At that moment, he suddenly realized something—
The system wasn't just confirming his online status.
It was also confirming whether he was "here."
This thought left him feeling empty.
But quickly, it was overshadowed by the next task.
When he left work, he walked slower than usual.
Not because he was tired.
But because he was unsure whether he should go back immediately.
Standing at the office building entrance, he stopped again.
Just like the day before. A breeze blew.
He looked up at the sky.
Gray.
Nothing worth seeing.
But he looked at it for a while.
As if waiting for something to align.
On the subway home, he sat, his eyes open.
The lights in the carriage flickered on and off station by station.
He stared at the route map above the doors.
The station names lit up one by one.
When it was his stop, he barely reacted.
The doors had already opened.
He stood up and got off with the crowd.
His movements were a beat slow.
But no one noticed.
Back in his rented room, it was already dark.
He turned on the light and changed his shoes.
Everything was familiar.
So familiar it was reassuring.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.
The water had just entered his mouth when he suddenly froze.
For a fleeting moment, he couldn't tell which cup he'd had.
It wasn't a jumble of memories.
It was a loss of sense of order.
He put the cup down.
He stood for a while.
The refrigerator's low chirping was steady and repetitive.
He leaned against the wall, then slowly slid down to the floor.
It wasn't exhaustion.
He just needed to stop.
As he sat there, he suddenly noticed a detail.
The sounds in the room seemed to have diminished.
It wasn't silence.
It was as if the "background" had become thin.
It was as if someone had turned down the volume of reality.
He closed his eyes.
Without conscious effort.
His body reacted immediately.
That familiar feeling of being lifted didn't fully materialize.
But the outline was there.
Very close.
So close that he could almost touch it without even sleeping.
This discovery sent a chill down his spine.
Not fear. It was an instinctive alertness.
He opened his eyes.
The light was glaring again.
He stood up, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains.
There were many lights outside.
The car was still moving.
Voices drifted in.
Everything was there.
But he had a very clear feeling—he had missed a little time today.
It wasn't working overtime.
It wasn't slacking off.
It was that a small period of time had been quietly taken away.
That night, he didn't go to sleep immediately.
nor did he deliberately stay awake.
He just sat on the edge of the bed until sleepiness came naturally.
Before closing his eyes, he suddenly realized something.
If this "missed opportunity" continued to happen,
one day, he might not realize it immediately.
The thought was faint.
But it didn't disappear.