The Static Hour #4

Yongkang walked out of the cinema. The afternoon sun beat down on the street, heat shimmering faintly on the flagstones. The air was dry and thick.

He looked back at the abandoned cinema he had just left—

Something was terribly wrong.

The structure was still standing; the mossy walls were unchanged; the rusted iron gate stood silent, and the stone steps leading up to it were still broken.

But—the neon sign was gone.

The four large characters spelling [Lido Cinema], which had been hanging over the entrance, had vanished as if they had never existed. There wasn't even a trace on the wall.

Yongkang’s heart contracted violently. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the theater ticket—

Stub No. 1747 Date: July 19, 1987 Seat: Row 7, No. 19

His eyes focused on the ticket. His fingers trembled slightly.

—The cinema's name was gone.

The four characters, [Lido Cinema], originally printed on the stub, were now blurred and indistinct, as if time itself had eroded the ink, leaving only a blank space.

He quickly pulled out the old photograph from his other pocket—

In the photo, the cinema still stood on the street, but the text [Lido Cinema] was now fractured, obscured as if by a thin layer of fog, barely legible.

It was as if... this world was actively attempting to erase its existence.

A cold prickle ran across Yongkang's fingertips, and his throat tightened.

He clenched the photograph and the ticket, his heart pounding furiously. He raised his head and looked toward the edge of the forest—

Beneath an old, gnarled banyan tree, a figure stood motionless.

His breath hitched, and his pupils slightly constricted.

The person was wearing a gray shirt, a metal ring on his wrist, hands shoved into his pockets. He stood there, unmoving, silently watching Yongkang.

—It was Mr. Chen.

This was the first time Mr. Chen had appeared outside the window of 19:19.

There was no measured, mechanical stride, and no fixed spot.

He simply stood there—no movement, no expression, no visible sign of alarm.

But his eyes—

They held no ripple, no emotion, yet carried an indescribable weight.

An unspoken boundary.

It was as if some unseen force separated them, reminding Yongkang—

He was not supposed to be here.

A chill raced up his spine. Yongkang's fingers grew cold, and his heartbeat lost its rhythm.

He dared not look again. He spun abruptly and sprinted back toward the town.

Yongkang hastened his pace, reaching the familiar street.

The sun still shone on the flagstones, the heat faintly rising, and everything looked the same as always.

But something... was wrong.

In front of the general store, a familiar figure ran out—

A five or six-year-old boy, clutching a glass jar, raised it happily and shouted:

"Mom! I bought the sesame oil!"

Yongkang’s steps faltered. His brow furrowed slightly.

Sesame oil?

No... this child bought soy sauce every day.

In his memory, this scene had played out countless times, even the boy’s running motion and the light reflected off the jar were identical to the past.

The only difference was the contents of the bottle.

"Didn't you always buy soy sauce?" Yongkang couldn't help but ask.

The boy stopped, tilted his head, looked at him, and pouted.

"I buy sesame oil every day."

A wave of coldness washed over Yongkang’s back.

His gaze fell on the general store owner—the owner was humming a tune, head down, casually tidying a shelf.

He seemed entirely oblivious to the conversation.

Yongkang's fingers unconsciously tightened.

He slowly turned, his eyes sweeping toward the pharmacy entrance, where another familiar figure stood—

The old woman with the small dog.

She stood at the counter, and seeing Yongkang, offered a small smile.

"I need seven red dates."

Red dates?

Yongkang's fingertips trembled slightly. His gaze fixed on the old woman's hand—

Her fingers shook slightly, but her expression was so natural, as if nothing had ever changed.

No... she always bought seven pieces of danggui.

This wasn't a simple change of choice; it was... a change in the programming.

"Is something wrong?" the old woman smiled. "Are the red dates not good?"

Yongkang hesitantly picked up the red dates and handed them to her, watching her leave.

But as she walked past the street corner with her dog—

Yongkang's body instantly froze.

The dog was black.

He remembered clearly that, until last night, the dog had always been grizzled gray.

He snapped his head up. The old woman strolled casually down the street, nodding a greeting to the cloth shop owner, just as usual.

The cloth shop owner showed no sign of noticing anything amiss.

Everyone acted as normal, as if... a gray-and-white dog had never existed in this world.

Yongkang's mind reeled in confusion.

Gray dog... black dog...

Which one was real?

His memory felt invaded by something unseen. A powerful sense of dread crept up his spine.

The world was being silently rewritten.

His mother stood behind Yongkang and gently tapped his shoulder, her voice calm and usual—

"Go and count the red dates."

That phrase...

Yongkang’s fingertips curled slightly. His heart skipped a beat.

He remembered counting danggui every day.

49 pieces, not one less.

But today, his mother told him to count red dates.

What did this mean?

What had changed? Was this connected to the sudden red date soup yesterday?

Questions churned in his mind. Yongkang’s breathing became ragged. He could distinctly hear his own heart pounding—

Thump, thump, thump.

The world was changing... but why?

Yongkang took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He walked slowly toward the herbal cabinet, his fingertips grazing past the wooden drawers, finally stopping at a label—

Danggui.

He ignored the red dates. He slowly pulled open the drawer, his fingertips touching the dry slices of angelica root.

He didn't know what he intended to prove, but he knew if the world was changing—

Then he would choose not to follow the change.

No red dates. He would count danggui.

35, 36, 37...

As he counted, his eyes darted to the goldsmith's clock behind the counter—

The digital display slowly changed. The time remained at—

19:18

40, 41...

The moment he picked up the 42nd piece of danggui—

Beep—

The digital clock suddenly flashed, briefly changing to—

"42"

For an instant, the lights flickered, and the air in the pharmacy seemed to still for a second.

Yongkang's fingers froze, his pupils contracting slightly.

An illusion?

He snapped his head up, his peripheral vision catching the television behind the counter—

The screen flashed. The news broadcast suddenly disappeared, replaced by a dark, signal-less screen.

—In the center, a single, glowing red number:

"42"

Hiss—

A sharp grinding sound rang out from outside the pharmacy.

It was the sound of the metal security gate vibrating, as if someone had lightly touched it.

Click!

The digital clock made a subtle sound. The numbers jumped again—

19:19

—Woosh!

Yongkang’s whole body jerked. He whipped his head around toward the pharmacy entrance.

Through the gaps in the security gate, a pair of eyes were silently staring at him.

Mr. Chen.

He made no sound, standing rigidly upright, as if silently descending from a crack in time.

The shadow of the metal gate fell across him, obscuring his features, but his pupils glowed with an unnerving light in the darkness.

—He was observing Yongkang.

—Confirming whether the variable was deviating.

A cold dread spread across Yongkang’s back. His breathing stopped.

Then, Mr. Chen slowly lifted his foot and took the first step.

The footstep was barely audible, yet it seemed to strike the air, synchronized with the clock’s ticking.

—One step.

—One step.

Yongkang’s throat was dry. His legs were too rigid to move.

Mr. Chen took another step closer.

—19:19. The time was locked.

The air felt restrained by an invisible net, suffocatingly heavy. The pressure surged like a tide, trapping Yongkang in place.

In this moment, he finally understood—

If a world is constructed by rules, then the one who defies the rules will be watched.

His fingers trembled. His eyes involuntarily scanned the digital clock—

19:19. Still unchanged.

The world was waiting for his choice.

Submit, or... continue to resist?

The air was stagnant. Time seemed to pause in this moment.

Yongkang clenched his fists, his knuckles white.

Just as he hesitated—

—Tap.

Mr. Chen took another step forward.

Yongkang's body went rigid.

The silent pressure was like an invisible hand, clamped tightly around his throat.

He involuntarily took a step backward.

Mr. Chen still hadn't spoken, his expression still blank, but his gaze carried a suffocating sense of scrutiny.

Yongkang’s palms were sweating. His breathing became erratic.

He took a deep breath, suppressing the terror in his heart. He looked down, quickly sliding the danggui back into the drawer. Then, trembling, he picked up the red dates and began to count.

"...42, 43, 44..."

45, 46, 47, 48, 49.

The moment the final red date fell into his palm, the digital clock remained at 19:19.

He slowly raised his head—

Mr. Chen had stopped moving.

He did not come closer, did not advance further, but simply stared at Yongkang, as if a certain mechanism had been reset, and everything had returned to its proper order.

"What's wrong?"

His mother's voice sounded from behind the counter, her tone entirely normal.

Yongkang snapped back to awareness. He turned around, and his mother was standing in front of him.

She set down the red dates, her voice calm. "Exactly 49 pieces."

Yongkang looked down at the seven red dates in his palm, his throat dry.

He turned toward the door.

By the fire hydrant, Mr. Chen had retreated to his original spot.

Standing still, his gaze fixed on the pharmacy, as if ensuring the variable had been corrected.

—Click!

The digital clock finally jumped—

19:20.

The world had restored its balance.

But Yongkang's heart refused to quiet down.