Forgotten Photo Studio

Chapter 117 Looking for Father
The world was "refreshed" in an instant. Precise, efficient, and utterly impersonal.

Xu Yan took a half step back, her heels scraping against the ground with a screeching sound.

Almost instinctively, the camera lens on his chest rotated automatically, emitting a faint "buzzing" sound, and was precisely aimed at the deep alleyway on the left.

At the very moment the aperture closes and the scene becomes sharp in the viewfinder—

A certain barrier seems to have been broken.

In the distance, a muffled car horn pierced the silence, followed by a flood of other sounds:

The wet screech of tires rolling over the pavement, the faint fragments of conversation, the sound of a shop shutter being pulled up...

The once empty street corner suddenly appeared with two or three blurry figures, walking hurriedly, as if they had always been there.

The light, too, came to life.

More windows let in warm light, and the neon signs began to flow again, giving the wet pavement a false and prosperous look.

Everything "reset" in the blink of an eye, and the hustle and bustle and vitality were reintroduced into the city's veins, seamlessly, as if the previous deathly silence was just a brief nightmare.

A figure, hunched over, slowly emerged from the shadows at the alley entrance.

Just that blurry outline, that faded blue work shirt—Xu Yan's entire world seemed to have been vacuumed out.

Time stood still. He couldn't hear the artificial clamor of the city; he could only hear the roar of his own blood rushing to his head.

My stomach suddenly convulsed, as if it were being violently pulled from the inside by a cold hook.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of his throat, only rapid breaths, like the gasps of a dying man.

That was... that was the shirt his father was wearing, stained and smelling of sweat.

"Is it...you?" He finally squeezed out these three words from the depths of his soul.

The figure paused, and then, in a breathtakingly slow motion, raised its head.

The stark white light of the streetlamp shone down, illuminating a face with disproportionate features, like a melted wax figure.

not him.

In that instant, Xu Yan felt not fear, but a sense of emptiness akin to his heart stopping.

It was as if his barely ignited hope had been crushed into dust right before his eyes.

He watched helplessly as the "man in blue" folded his body at an inhuman angle like a puppet with its strings cut, melting away and disappearing back into the shadows of the alley.

He forced himself to look away, took a deep breath of the cold, rusty air, and walked toward a 24-hour convenience store on the street corner whose sign was still lit up.

"Clang—" The glass door opened and closed, ringing the old doorbell.

The young clerk behind the counter didn't even look up, her eyes glued to the terminal screen in her hand, her fingers flying across the screen.

"Get me a takeout bag." Xu Yan's voice was a little hoarse.

"Six cents." The shop assistant casually pointed to the QR code next to him.

He turned to leave, his gaze inadvertently sweeping across the smooth, mirror-like glass door. In the reflection, above his own shoulder, a hand made of gray wisps of smoke was slowly reaching out.

It has no physical form, yet it carries a chilling aura that freezes the soul.

Even more terrifying, the instant that eerie hand touched his reflection, a memory suddenly flashed through his mind and shattered—it was Ah Zhe! Ah Zhe was calling out to him… His lips were clearly shaped, but his voice was swallowed up by something invisible!

He turned around abruptly, only to find no one behind him.

The fluorescent tubes flickered.

He turned back, and the reflection returned to normal. The triggered memory blurred, like the receding tide, impossible to grasp. "Forgetting is true death..."

The words on the photograph shrieked in his mind.

If being "forgotten" is equivalent to death, then what is he now, carrying memories that shouldn't exist, walking consciously in this world that is constantly being "reset" and "modified"?
Are they prisoners of memories? Or... unacknowledged souls?

He pushed open the door and stepped back into the midnight streets.

The surroundings had returned to "normal" at some point.

He continued walking, his gaze scanning the city's false prosperity like a probe.

Then he saw it—on the bus stop, the advertisement for the celebrity from yesterday had been replaced by a virtual idol with the exact same smile; at his usual snack stall, the proprietress's greeting was half a tone higher than he remembered, so precise it was unsettling.

All these tiny "corrections" were like needles pricking his memory.

He raised his hand and looked at his palm.

Under the streetlights, the outline of his fingers seemed to flicker and blur slightly for a moment.

In the distance, a very faint, almost hallucinatory hum came from the direction of the clock tower.

That's not a time signal.

Xu Yan knew.

That's the next cycle... the approaching footsteps.

He picked up the camera, and the cold body of it provided a tangible sense of touch, sustaining his fading presence.

"Memory will die."

He whispered a declaration of war against the empty streets, and against his own soul that was being eroded.

"But I refuse to be forgotten."

The first light of dawn, like an old cloth that has been repeatedly washed, barely illuminated the signboard of "Forgotten Photo Studio".

Xu Yan stopped at the door. The sound of the suitcase wheels came to an abrupt halt.

Instead of bringing the box full of "memorials" directly into the museum as usual, he gently placed it in the shadows by the door, as if to shut out all the coldness and struggle of the previous night.

He pushed open the door. The old hinges groaned familiarly, and the wind chimes overhead jingled crisply.

This sound was no longer a cold drop of water, but like a needle, precisely piercing a soft corner deep in his memory.

He stood at the door, his gaze sweeping almost greedily over everything inside the building—the familiar musty smell mixed with the scent of Chen Zhiwei's favorite lemon soap, the slow ticking of the old clock on the wall, and... the black and white photograph on the wall.

In the photo, the mother is wearing a wedding dress from the 1950s, her hair is neatly styled, her eyebrows and eyes are gentle and bright, as if she contains the unique, untarnished hope of that era.

Not the same.

Last time, he only felt irony, comparing it to the cold, fake portrait in the funeral home.

But this time, after experiencing utter loss and an unbelievable "return," the smile in the photo, this frozen, pure "existence," almost brought tears to his eyes.

He didn't stop, nor did he collapse onto the counter as if he had exhausted his last bit of strength.

The exhaustion from a sleepless night was replaced by a deeper, more urgent emotion—he needed confirmation, needed to grasp some anchor point that could prove his "real return."

He almost couldn't wait to turn onto the stairs leading to the second floor.

The footsteps had barely touched the wooden stairs when a clear, slightly sleepy voice came from above:
"Senior brother? You're only just returning... um!"

(End of this chapter)