Memories, are they real or fake?

Chen Tian smiled—not foolishly, but because the scene before him had appeared in his mind.

His soul began to dissipate.

No one could stop him anymore.

He let go of everything, cast everything aside, and gazed back at the scene that had appeared before him.

It was from when he had been watching the show, watching her prepare to go onstage.

It was a sunset that had once appeared in his heart. He had advised her not to go on that show because it was terribly boring.

But she had said the production team was paying well.

He fell silent. She had looked anxious and frustrated, with even a sense of giving up completely. She really had looked like a little girl.

He had still been thinking that her personality had not improved at all—that she could not withstand even the slightest pressure, and wore everything plainly on her face. The moment she went onstage, she said that because her supervisor could not reach her, the supervisor had thought she was dead. Someone onstage immediately hit the punchline bell. She looked astonished, and so did I.

I had wondered, Is this funny? It seemed pretty funny, because it was unbelievably satirical. That was simply how the industry worked nowadays. No matter when it was—even at three in the morning—you had to come whenever someone called.

Only later did I learn that she had severe depression and had attempted suicide several times. Her female supervisor had been afraid she was dead—truly afraid she was dead. He always remembered what she had said after telling that story: the Northern Border's subway went round and round, day after day. Even the universe had an end, but the Northern Border did not, and neither did Shang Hai. Probably anyone who had worked in a first-tier city would smile knowingly upon hearing that, laughing through their tears.

When I was in Guangzhou, I took the subway in the wrong direction several times.

Whenever she messaged me on WeChat and knew I was riding the subway, she would remind me not to take the wrong direction.

But considering how many times I had taken the subway, getting the direction wrong once in a while was perfectly normal.

Guangzhou's subway did not go round and round. It was like a spiderweb stretching out from Pearl River Old City. After work, you silently traveled farther and farther away from the city's splendor, farther and farther away.

If you got off work on time, squeezing onto the subway at Pearl River Old City was an art. Back then, I had studied all kinds of routes to reach the places with the fewest people as quickly as possible. But really, it was all self-consolation—telling myself that at least I could definitely get on the next train.

By the last few subway trains, there were far fewer people, though still more than I had imagined. At least I could finally walk into the subway at ease.

At times like that, I would look over the clothes worn by the men and women in the station. They were all dressed in dazzling finery, perfectly complementing the towering office buildings.

Later, when I changed careers, a friend joked that those people worked in the most dazzling office buildings while wearing the most dazzling clothes, yet earned far less than the programmers at game companies in remote suburbs, who wore oversized shorts and shuffled around in slippers.

Sometimes I really wondered what had bewitched young people into thinking that they could earn more money and live better lives in big cities than in small ones. Later, I switched to the game industry and went to remote Luogang, where I no longer needed to take the subway.

Before I moved there, I had to take a bus for a long stretch. First came a road where the houses grew fewer and fewer, then it wound into an old factory district, passed through an orchard, and finally reached the destination after going beneath an overpass. It felt as though I were almost there.

The road was new, broad, and straight. The bus dropped me at the entrance to my residential complex, and I walked nearly eight hundred meters along Banhe Road before reaching the company grounds.

Rainy days were miserable. Around the factory district, there were flooded roads and stalled cars everywhere. That road was only wide enough for two cars, so it could be completely jammed in an instant. The driver could only take a detour, but every route he tried turned out to be blocked too. A commute that should have taken forty-five minutes could leave you unable to arrive even after three or four hours.

The company was quite humane. Knowing about the situation, it announced that lateness would not be recorded that day. Meanwhile, colleagues who had taken the company shuttle from Huangcun after eight in the morning still had not appeared by two in the afternoon.

But in the bright light of day, none of this was a problem.

My work often required overtime. The last bus ran after nine, while I did not leave until after midnight.

At first, I called Didi, because it was somewhat cheaper than a taxi.

But once, a Didi driver tried to save time by taking a shortcut.

I soon became very familiar with that shortcut. It led out from the old factory district I had mentioned, turned left onto a stretch of dirt road, entered another factory district, and then crossed another dirt road. Those factories were much newer, but there was not a soul in sight. Then came another dirt road, a turn into farmland, and a narrow path running through the middle of a pond, before finally reaching Huangpu District.

The first time I took that route, there was not a single light, not a single human silhouette, and not even one bark from a dog. I did not know whether the driver could see the road. I only knew that I was genuinely afraid.

I did not even know how to describe that place to other people. I could only say that there was not a dog in sight, the car bounced along the dirt road, and I could see only whatever lay within the headlights.

All I could do was keep chatting amiably with the driver, hinting that someone was waiting for me at the destination, even though I knew there was no one.

I had told more than one person that stretch of road frightened me, but no one seemed to believe me. How frightening could a road in Guangzhou possibly be? Yet eventually, after some things happened, I finally made up my mind to move away.

Living in the new place was a happy period. The rent was not expensive, and the surroundings were comfortable.

I walked my dog downstairs and met many fellow dog owners. The only problem was that, during the period when I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment, I was always afraid of losing my keys when going to work or walking the dog at night. I imagined countless times that I had dropped them into a sewer while walking the dog.

That period was, in fact, relatively peaceful. Work went smoothly, and the team atmosphere was good, giving me hope of settling down in Guangzhou.

I had even begun planning to buy a house there.

But for some reason, things suddenly took a sharp turn downward. The pressure of being promoted too quickly began to twist me. A friend said I had bitten off more than I could chew. Later, I resigned.

Looking back, I always felt that resigning had been a regret. But when I thought about it, it seemed there had been no other choice.

For my next job, I went to Gaowan and chose to live in Foshan New City, close to Gaowan.

I was truly very good at renting apartments. It seemed as though luck always helped me find good places, but I had also done a tremendous amount of research. Beforehand, I looked through countless pieces of information, made countless tables, and knew exactly what locations and what kinds of homes I needed to look for.

My first rental was in Huangpu, very close to a subway station. It took less than thirty minutes to reach Pearl River Old City. It was an old government dormitory surrounded by government offices—safe and comfortable, with three bedrooms and a living room that made it feel like home.

The second and third places were also suitable in terms of both surroundings and price. People even envied me when I posted pictures of them on my Moments.

The last one was in Foshan. It took me two days to find it. I spent the entire first day viewing apartments, but could not find one I liked.

It had to be within half an hour of work. Because I often worked late, there could be no dark, deserted paths between the subway station and home. The rent could not be too high, or I could not afford it. The place had to be large enough to hold my enormous amount of stuff.

That was an incredibly demanding list. The results of the first day's viewings were utterly discouraging, especially compared with my previous home.

The next day, a friend accompanied me. I was already dejected and had almost no confidence left. He encouraged and comforted me, saying that he would look together with me that day. Only then did I manage to force myself to get moving.

In the end, we found a place at a very good price, with the subway station right beside the entrance to the residential complex.

I was truly deeply moved whenever I talked about that scene at the time.

Back then, I had been full of hope and countless plans for life in Foshan. Sitting outside that KFC in Pucheng, I had been terribly dejected, but fortunately, everything was still all right.

It was a place perfectly suited for living. Turn left after leaving home and you reached the tourist attraction Ancestral Temple, along with all kinds of internet-famous check-in spots. Turn right and you reached Pujun New City, surrounded by a whole host of delicious foods praised by old Foshan locals—cheap and tasty.

Behind the complex was also a breakfast rice-roll shop whose taste surpassed everything Guangzhou had to offer. Each roll cost only three and a half yuan. I had so dearly hoped that I could buy my own home there.

It seemed that, bright and clear, a shining journey was about to begin. But sadly, after struggling for a year, I still ended in failure.

Later, I read a passage and repeatedly posted it on my Moments for my ex to see. It roughly said: You were like a piece of candy I had long awaited and painstakingly unwrapped. Yet just as I was about to put it into my mouth, it fell to the ground.

Someone else's end of the universe was the sea of stars. Mine was here. I returned to the place I had started. I took a bus by myself, watching the ring road and the sea through the window, then transferred at Houzhai to leave the island.

The sea at Nan'ao was truly beautiful. I remembered it with perfect clarity, and every time I went, I could not help taking countless photos.

Back then, I also wondered: Would I live in this place? Did I want to live in this place? Everything was different from what I had imagined. Those reefs and white seabirds swayed and strutted away from me. I had never once received even the slightest sense of warmth from nature.

I held a deep reverence for nature. Like everyone else, I said to the sea, "Goodbye." The sea replied, "Who are you?"

Sometimes I also wondered whether I would ever return to that island. There was no need, right? I had seen so many of its sights. Wasn't every sea in the world like this?

I had also eaten the best seafood on the island, and next time I returned, I would not be able to eat it again.

I came back at the end of February last year. It had now been more than a year and a half.

I had experienced far more than I had imagined. Perhaps I owed Shantou too much, so the moment I returned, I hurried to repay my debts.

Then, all of a sudden, I fell silent amid the chaos, leaving myself helpless and at a loss.

At last, I was finally about to enter a new life.

A few months ago, I had still thought this was another place for amusement. But after calming down, I understood that, just as in the past, work was work, and I was myself. It was not simply whatever others said it was.

If I became restless, I would once again listen to others saying how things ought to be here, and how I ought to be.

But unfortunately, I was an exceedingly proud person. Whatever I said was how things were. I was smarter than most people. I had been that way in the past, and I was still that way now.

"What a beautiful illusion."

Two clear tears slipped down Chen Tian's face. His body turned into starlight and vanished from the world.

No one knew whether what he saw at the end was the person he had once been. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was not.