The Static Hour #3

The pharmacy was closed for the night. His mother was busy in the kitchen, and the shop lights were dim, leaving a faint, lingering scent of medicinal herbs on the counter.

Yongkang sat at the counter, his brow deeply furrowed.

Everything today had been profoundly abnormal.

The danggui had temporarily returned to 49 pieces; a strange old man had appeared; the digital clock had flashed wildly—it felt like a script that had been tampered with.

Yet, in the end, the danggui reverted to 42 pieces, Mr. Chen reappeared, and the metal ring in his pocket... vanished.

Which was real, and which was false?

—Reset?

The word suddenly materialized in his mind.

He opened his notebook, intending to record the day's events, but found his hand trembling slightly as he held the pen.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down.

Just as he put the pen down, his gaze swept over a crack in the camphor wood cabinet. Tucked within the fissure was a slightly yellowed slip of paper.

He frowned, pulling it out.

—It was an old theater ticket stub.

[Lido Cinema | Stub No. 1747] [Date: July 19, 1987] [Seat: Row 7, No. 19]

Yongkang's fingers tightened instantly around the paper.

July 19, 1987...

Another familiar date.

Why was this ticket here? Had it been here all along, or had someone deliberately left it for him?

He stared at the words on the stub, his heartbeat quickening.

Stub No. 1747.

A number that seemed innocuous, yet instantly unsettling.

In Yongkang's world, 1748 was everywhere.

But 1747—differing by only a single digit—felt like a signal from another dimension.

—This could not be a coincidence.

Even stranger, he was certain he had never seen this ticket before, yet why did he feel such a strange sense of familiarity as he stared at it?

From the kitchen, his mother's voice called out: "Yongkang, close up and come eat!"

Yongkang snapped back to reality. He gripped the ticket, slowly folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.

He had a chilling conviction that the appearance of this ticket was far from accidental.

At dinner, his mother served a bowl of soup, crimson-colored fruits floating within.

"Drink your soup."

The porcelain spoon tapped the bowl seven times, the sound as crisp as a pendulum marking time.

Yongkang froze.

Today’s soup wasn't danggui—it was red dates?

He stared at his mother, his lips slightly parted, but he said nothing.

For the past 174 days, the soup had contained 49 pieces of danggui. Today—

It was 49 red dates.

—What did this signify?

His mother didn't look at him, her expression as placid as ever. Even the rhythm of her stirring spoon was identical.

But Yongkang felt a distinct shift within; a variable was changing.

"Mom..." he hesitated, then forced the question out. "Did we used to... have red date soup?"

His mother paused, a flicker of imperceptible stiffness crossing her face.

"What's wrong? It's always been red date soup." "Forty-nine pieces, just like always."

She lowered her head and continued to ladle the soup, her tone cooler than usual.

Yongkang's heart seized up.

49 red dates, the spoon tapping the bowl seven times... The only difference was the red dates themselves.

He stared at the contents of the bowl, his fingertips faintly trembling.

The wind outside brought a fine spray of rain, like a distant, echoing memory.

Later that night, the rain pattered softly on the rooftop, a familiar, rhythmic tune.

Yongkang lay on his bed, his fingers rubbing the texture of the theater ticket.

Lido Cinema.

The name brought with it a vague sense of déjà vu.

He swung his legs off the bed and walked to his father's desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. From a stack of old documents, he retrieved a yellowed photograph.

—He had found this photo before, but this time, he studied it more closely.

The photo showed an old cinema, its neon sign still faintly visible on the wall:

—[Lido Cinema]

His breathing quickened slightly.

Was the cinema on the ticket the same place as in the photo?

He looked closely at the background of the photo, finding a blurred figure standing at the cinema entrance.

He hadn't noticed this detail before—

The figure was a man, wearing a gray shirt, standing at the Lido Cinema entrance, with a metal band on his wrist.

Yongkang sharply inhaled.

This was exactly Mr. Chen's attire.

But... the date on the photograph was October 17, 1995, the day he was born.

If the person in the photo truly was Mr. Chen, then it meant—

Mr. Chen had existed as far back as 1995?

The raindrops tapped against the windowpane outside. Time seemed to stand still in that moment.

At first light, a faint glow of dawn pierced the thin mist, spilling onto the winding mountain road.

The abandoned Lido Cinema slept deep in the woods, like a ruin forgotten by time.

Yongkang stood at the edge of the forest, gazing through the dappled tree shadows at the dilapidated building in the distance.

The Lido Cinema in the photograph had bright neon lights.

The real Lido Cinema was reduced to a broken sign, walls overgrown with moss, and a rusted iron gate.

He took a deep breath, slowly approaching.

The ticket in his hand was damp with sweat.

He was 38 years late for this movie.

But he was finally here.

He drew a final breath and pushed open the heavy iron gate.

The moment the gate swung open, the damp smell of mildew rushed out, like decades of trapped, stagnant memories.

Yongkang advanced bravely, holding his flashlight. The main lobby was dim, with only a few weak shafts of light filtering through the broken skylight.

The floor was thick with dust, shards of glass glittered faintly in the morning light, and tattered posters hung on the sloping walls, the writing nearly faded.

In a corner, he found a yellowed film program. The only title still recognizable was—

The Rainforest Paradox.

Yongkang’s fingers trembled.

This film... he had never heard of it.

But the name had appeared in his father's notes.

He walked through a long corridor and slowly stepped into the theater hall.

The air was heavy with the smell of damp decay. Seats plunged into darkness, layer upon layer, like sleeping machines waiting for a signal to awaken them.

Yongkang looked down at the ticket in his hand—

[Row 7, No. 19]

His heart pounded against his ribs. He slowly walked towards his seat, his fingertips tracing the cold metal seat number.

"...19."

He sat down. Silence consumed the space, as if the entire theater had been stripped of time and temperature, so quiet that even the sound of his own heartbeat was intensely audible.

—Click-Clack—

The sound of gears slowly turning came from the projection booth overhead.

Dull, archaic, like some long-dormant piece of machinery restarting.

The 35mm film began to play.

The screen lit up. An eerie, cold light projected into the hall, and through the dancing shadows, a series of cold codes materialized on the screen—

[System Scan: 1747]

Yongkang’s eyes widened, his fingers digging into the armrest.

Dense lines of code scrolled rapidly across the screen, as if an invisible hand were frantically reading the world's underlying data.

Then, the image suddenly flashed.

He saw a series of fragmented, blurred images—

—An unfamiliar small town, yet with strangely familiar outlines... —A brightly lit cinema, neon flashing in the night... —A white spherical building stood high on a hill... a meteorological station? —People passed by, living their lives, as if everything were normal... —The footage suddenly paused. The hunched old man appeared on screen, smiling faintly.

—The same old man who appeared today!

Yongkang's back muscles tightened sharply.

—Beep!

[System Scan: 1747]

[42 ERROR]

Red codes flashed. The screen trembled. Data scrolled furiously, like some catastrophic warning—

"System Anomaly" "Variable Identification Error... Error Code #742_#9" "Reboot Time Marker: 1987.7.19" "Deleting Variable 9... Executing" "..." "Forcing Shutdown Procedure..."

Yongkang stared, his fingers locked onto the seat armrest.

July 19, 1987... why did this date feel so familiar? And Variable 9... what was that?

—Beep!

The image suddenly juddered, flashing like TV static, scattering images quickly piecing themselves together—

The pharmacy, his mother, the goldsmith's, the cloth shop... The radio telescope on the mountain observatory... A book—the cover was indistinct, but four characters were vaguely visible: The Rainforest Paradox.

—The footage tore apart.

The data began to disintegrate. The screen finally settled on a sequence of flashing numbers—

42.7.42.7.42.7.42.7

Then—

A flash of golden light, like a fragment of memory:

—A child running down the street... —A small dog lifting its leg by a lamp post... —Shop neon lights flickering, a man's silhouette standing at the street corner... —Light and shadow fractured. The image blurred. Everything seemed to have never existed...

—Darkness swallowed everything.

The screen flashed one last time, the final image settling on—

"1995.10.17... System Anomaly" "ERROR 1748"

Yongkang's pupils contracted, fixed on the screen.

This date... why did it fill him with such dread?

The screen flickered, and the light extinguished instantly.

The world fell into dead silence.