Damn it! My scalp tingled, and my whole body started to shake. I thought, what is going on? How could there be my handwriting on a seal from a university in Changsha in 1990?

No, I must not be mistaken! I thought to myself, it’s impossible for something like this to happen, but at the same time, I knew my intuition about handwriting, honed from looking at over a hundred thousand rubbings, would not deceive me.

It must be a coincidence; I studied the running script, and perhaps that person also learned this style, so there’s a bit of resemblance in the spirit of the writing.

I slapped my forehead, finding a hundred excuses for this, like a man trying to justify his infidelity. By the end, I found it laughable, knowing these excuses wouldn’t fool me.

I glanced at my watch; it was already midnight. Calling Du Juan Shan out at this hour was unrealistic, but there was no way I could sleep tonight. Anyway, the seal was outside the archives, and I could see it without a key. So, I tidied myself up, brought Wang Meng along, and set off again to that university to see what was going on.

I took a taxi there, but without Du Juan Shan’s work ID, the guard wouldn’t let me in. Anyone who has been to university would understand this kind of situation. I turned back to a nearby convenience store, bought a pack of Zhonghua cigarettes, and easily blended in. I relied on my memory to return to the old auditorium.

The entire campus was dark, with only the streetlights illuminating the area, which was pitch black. However, I was anxious and didn’t pay much attention, making my way to the underground archives, heading straight to the seal.

The handwriting was right there, unchanged.

My heart raced; I wanted to see it like a girl peeking into a bathhouse, hurriedly shining my flashlight.

July 6, 1990, XX University Archaeological Research Institute sealed.

This time I saw it more clearly, and every stroke was vivid in my mind. As I looked, cold sweat began to slide down my cheeks.

It really was my handwriting.

I stood there, frozen, almost on the verge of collapse.

Ordinary people can recognize their handwriting as long as the time interval isn’t too long, let alone someone in my profession. This was definitely my handwriting; there could be no excuses.

How old was I in 1990? Thirteen? Fifteen? Did I even know running script back then? Damn, I probably didn’t even know what it was! What is going on?

“For me, everything has ended, but for you, nothing has actually begun.”

My uncle’s voice suddenly echoed in my ears, and that long-lost, splitting headache feeling began to swirl in my mind again.

I took a deep breath, trying to dispel these thoughts, as my brain started to reorganize all the fragments. Past experience told me this was of no use at this point, and once I got agitated, it would be hard to calm down; I had to stay composed before the agitation set in.

I remembered a videotape sent by Wen Jin, in which a person who looked very much like me was crawling in a sanatorium in Golmud, but at that time, she hadn’t had the chance to explain. My uncle had said that asking about them was not simple; I had thought it was just his bravado, but now it seemed indeed suspicious.

What exactly happened to me? How should this be explained? It seemed there was not just one me in this world, but another me, who, nearly twenty years ago, wrote this seal in this very place. Around the same time, I was also filmed in an old house in Golmud…

I’m feeling completely lost and confused, even more so than with the situation involving my third uncle. Holding a flashlight, I shine it into the space behind the seal. If this seal was put on by “me,” then clearly, there’s something to investigate. At the very least, I can be sure that the “I” who wrote the seal is connected to this research institute.

This underground room, which they thought had been untouched for decades, not only has someone entered it but is also involved in such bizarre events. I can’t help but wonder what the situation was back then. It seems I have no choice but to go down and figure out what’s going on.

The darkness below is thick, resembling the passage of an ancient tomb. My painful experience in Golmud makes me feel a bit fearful. However, considering that this is in downtown Changsha, not far from a community police station, and that the civilized world is generally reliable, there shouldn’t be any scenarios like those in campus ghost stories. So, I wipe my sweat and, feeling frustrated, think that if I had known the focus was here, one pack of Zhonghua cigarettes would have sufficed, and I wouldn’t have had to buy two to honor that cuckoo.

The iron chain is at least twenty pounds heavy and extremely rusted, making a lot of noise. It’s clear that whoever locked this door must have been quite real. After tugging on it a couple of times, a bad thought suddenly crossed my mind: could such a thick iron chain be locking away some kind of monster?

I quickly dismissed that thought. How could that be possible? Carefully, I pulled the iron chain out and set it aside, my hands covered in rust. Then I tore the seal and took a couple of breaths as I descended, only to be choked by the dust that rose, causing tears to well up in my eyes.

The staircase is in complete disarray, filled with old tables and chairs. As I went down, I saw a door identical to the one in the archives above, and it was unlocked. I shone my light inside; it was a room of the same size as the one above, but instead of archives, it was filled with clutter.

After looking around, I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. This was not the old archive room mentioned in Cuckoo Mountain but rather a storage room. Judging by the rubbish, it seems this mess has been here since the house was built, covered in a thick layer of dust.

I shone my flashlight around haphazardly, pulling up my T-shirt to cover my mouth and nose; the smell of dust was really pungent and uncomfortable. There were scattered footprints on the ground, and a layer of dust on top indicated that it had been a while since someone had walked here, likely around the time when the events took place. The footprints formed a trail, suggesting that two or three people had walked in a somewhat erratic manner, heading deeper into the storage room.

Following the footprints, I examined the surrounding clutter, unable to identify what those items were. After taking a few more steps into the depths, I could barely make out several large wooden boxes.

But upon seeing these boxes, a story came to mind: in the National Archives warehouse, several wooden boxes had been discovered, all filled with Dunhuang manuscripts. They were brought in during a payment process but went uncounted during the early liberation period, and they were only discovered when they were moved.

Could there be similar treasures in these storage rooms? The scale of the boxes makes me feel overwhelmed. With just my own strength, it would be nearly impossible to find out what happened in this layer of the warehouse back then. It’s too messy and too dirty. Even if I found a clue, I wouldn’t have the energy to move them aside to investigate.

At the end of the warehouse, where there were slightly fewer miscellaneous items, there was a large square box covered with something. The footprints led directly to the box, and when I crouched down to take a look, I noticed that they hadn’t stopped in front of the box; the footprints had been pressed beneath it.

“Boss, did this box come in recently?” Wang Meng asked.

That meant they had hidden something. Given the angle of the box and the corner, there must be a space created that contained something they wanted to conceal.

I said to Wang Meng, “Go, push it aside.”

“Huh?” Wang Meng turned pale, “Boss, this…”

“I told you to go, so go!” I replied. He had no choice but to swallow hard and carefully push the box. The box was extremely heavy; his face turned a shade of liver color as he finally managed to move it aside. I shone my flashlight, and in the corner behind the box, I saw several large piles of documents.