The man who came through the door wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and white canvas sneakers. At a glance, he was clearly a single Dog with no girlfriend to help him pick out his clothes—ordinary, nothing out of the way. But that face, that aura, gave Meng Qi a chill.
It was actually another him!
Wasn't he supposed to have died in his rented apartment? Hadn't it been nearly three years since his parents had suffered the pain of losing their son?
The same features, as if carved from one mold; the same gestures, as if copied exactly. Even their auras were identical. So when his emotions first stirred, Meng Qi had assumed it was just the lingering ripple of some fluctuation and hadn't paid it any mind.
He watched the "other him" kick off his sneakers, change into slippers, shuffle into the kitchen, and grab half a sausage that hadn't been sliced yet. His mother rapped him sharply on the head. The scene felt like yesterday all over again, both dreamlike and real.
The beautiful memories played like a film, yet the person in them was no longer himself.
Which was real, and which was false? When the false is taken for true, even the true becomes false.
Was the Demon Buddha or Yang Jian hiding their tracks by deliberately "making" another version of him, so no one would notice? Or was there some other twist?
He stood motionless in the living room, his figure concealed in the void, watching one heartwarming domestic scene after another unfold.
"You're nearly thirty and still haven't got a lick of sense. Out, out, take the dishes." His mother shoved the "other him," who was lounging around lazily.
The "other him" grinned and praised his mother's sausage-making skills, then carried the finished dishes