The richest man started taking advantage of loopholes after joining Alibaba.

He stayed on the Lv4 interface for a long time.

The words "Africa Exploration" are displayed below the folder icon, in yellow with black text, the default system layout.

Nothing special.

It looks no different from any other folder on the computer.

But he looked at it as if it were something he had been waiting for a long time to finally appear.

He tried double-clicking to open "Africa Survey".

It's empty inside.

The folder was just created, and nothing has been put into it yet.

However, this empty space is different from the empty spaces before Lv4.

This blank space is a blank space that "has not yet started," not a blank space that "has nothing at all."

The sunlight outside the window was moving, slowly shifting from the left side of the desk towards the center.

The light spots on the dark blue folder were also moving, sliding from the upper half of the cover to the lower half.

He didn't notice any of this.

About ten minutes later, he turned off "Africa Exploration" and closed Lv4.

The desktop has reverted to a state with three icons.

Lv4, Abyss-v4, Screenshot_20221226.

The empty space in the middle is still there.

He looked at the empty seat.

"If" is in the root directory of drive D.

It's still alive; it hasn't been deleted, it's just been hidden away.

He opened "This PC".

Go to drive D.

The file list has loaded, with a bunch of folders with English names listed first, arranged in alphabetical order.

I scrolled down a few lines and found it.

"if".

The yellow folder icon is exactly the same as the "Africa Exploration" icon in Lv4, but with a different name.

It was placed between a folder called "backup_2021" and a folder called "driver_old".

The two Chinese characters sandwiched between the two English names look a bit abrupt.

He double-clicked to open it.

empty.

As with every time I opened it, there was nothing there.

It has never been used to store anything since it was built.

An empty folder.

An empty folder named "If".

When it was created, it was imbued with a possibility, a thought of "maybe one day".

Chengdu is shining.

My passport has turned green.

The Ark has thawed.

The circuit breaker agreement has been signed.

The African Red Badge has arrived.

Lv4 has something.

Six things.

Each one is evidence of moving from "if" to "already".

He right-clicked on the folder.

The menu popped up, showing a row of gray and white options with black text on a white background.

Open, copy, cut, rename, attributes.

The bottom option.

delete.

A red trash can icon with the word "Delete" next to it.

His mouse cursor moved to "Delete".

The word "delete" was highlighted in blue.

It paused for a moment.

About two or three seconds.

It's not hesitation; it's doing something that doesn't require hesitation but is worth stopping for.

Just like the second it takes to screw the pen cap back on after signing a document, it's not an unnecessary action, it's a period.

Clicked.

A confirmation dialog box popped up.

A white dialog box with a line of text in the middle.

Are you sure you want to move 'if' to the recycle bin?

He looked at the line of text.

The system asked, "Are you sure?"

Are you sure you want to move "if" to the recycle bin?

A system is asking a user whether they want to delete a possibility.

Of course, the system is unaware of these things.

The system only knows that this is an empty folder with 0 bytes, occupying zero disk space, and deleting it will not free up any space.

But he knew.

Sure.

I clicked "Yes".

The folder disappeared from the list.

The space between "backup_2021" and "driver_old" in the root directory of drive D is empty; the two English names are now close together, with the spacing between them narrowed.

The list has been rearranged, with the top folder moved down one space to fill the line space left by the "if" clause.

"If" is no longer there.

It wasn't put away.

Yes, it was deleted.

He did not empty the recycle bin.

If "if" is currently in the recycle bin, the recycle bin icon in the lower left corner of the desktop will have changed to a bulging trash can shape, indicating that there is something inside.

"If" is the only file in the recycle bin.

It can be restored; right-click and select "Restore" to return it to its original location on drive D.

But he won't restore it.

It has completed its mission.

An empty folder that had never contained anything existed for more than two years, moving from the desktop to the D drive, and then from the D drive to the recycle bin.

The journey, which lasted for more than two years, ended at the recycling center.

Its only purpose is to remind him of a possibility.

Now that possibility has been realized, the reminder is no longer needed.

He closed the window on drive D.

I turned off "This PC".

There are three icons on the desktop.

Lv4, Abyss-v4, Screenshot_20221226.

The empty space in the middle.

The position of "if".

This empty seat has been there since the night of June 619th.

Previously, when he looked at that empty space, he thought, "It's on the D drive."

Now, looking at that empty space, he thinks, "It's in the recycling bin."

After a while, the system will automatically empty the recycle bin.

Then that empty space is just an empty space; it doesn't point to anything or connect to anything.

It's just an area on the desktop without any icons.

He leaned back in his chair.

The office was so quiet you could hear the airflow from the air conditioner vents.

The dark blue folder lay quietly on the left side of the desktop, zipped up, the silver zipper pull flashing in the sunlight.

He picked up his phone.

It's not about sending a message to Shen Nan, not about sending a message to Chen Wei, not about sending a message to Xie Yu or Fang Yuan.

I scrolled to Lao Zhou's chat window.

The last message was from when Lao Zhou came last time: "Biluochun tea is good, I'll brew you a cup another day."

That message was sent several days ago, and there have been no new conversations since.

He typed a line of text.

Let's have lunch together tomorrow.

No punctuation was added.

send.

I waited for about half a minute.

Old Zhou isn't the type to reply instantly; he might be checking temperature control data, brewing Biluochun tea, or queuing in the cafeteria.

A reply came half a minute later.

"Okay, I'll bring Biluochun tea."

Five words.

Lin Che stared at those five words for a few seconds.

Biluochun tea.

Old Zhou brought Biluochun tea to dinner.

It's not Tieguanyin anymore.

I've been drinking Tieguanyin for several years, but Biluochun is new.

New tea, new year, new things.

But eating is still eating, bringing tea is still bringing tea, and Lao Zhou is still Lao Zhou.

He put his phone down, screen facing up.

Old Zhou's five words were still displayed in the dialog box.

The sunlight outside the window started to move to the right; the sun was already setting in the west by 3 p.m.

The light spot slid from the tabletop onto the carpet, to the same spot as when He Wei came a few days ago.

The office was quiet.

Tomorrow at noon.

Biluochun tea.

Let's have a meal.

A meal where you don't have to think about anything.