Mortal: Traveling Between Two Realms with Mei Ning to Pick Up Trash

He should remember that he had lived here for more than a decade and walked every road countless times, but now, when he tries to recall it, his mind is completely blank.

After the meal, Zhou Yu helped clear the dishes.

His sister told him not to do anything, saying he was tired outside and should rest when he got home, but he didn't listen and took the bowls and plates into the kitchen.

The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to turn around. The faucet was old-fashioned; it made a muffled sound when turned on before the water gushed out.

He was washing the dishes, while his sister was wiping the table beside him. The sounds of running water, the rag swiping across the table, and his mother walking around in the living room all blended together, making him feel very peaceful.

When he was washing the third bowl, he saw a glass bottle on the windowsill, filled with more than half a bottle of water. There were a few things stuck in the bottle, without leaves, just bare branches. On the branches were a few flower buds, which had not yet opened and were tightly wrapped together, like small dark red beads.

"What is that?" Zhou Yu asked.

My older sister came over and glanced at it. "The plum blossoms, they were picked from that tree at the alley entrance. Every year in December, I pick a few branches to put in the trees, have you forgotten?"

plum bossom.

Zhou Yu's hand stopped.

plum bossom.

He stared at the flower buds, dark red, tightly wrapped together, not yet open. The water was clear, and he could see the cuts on the branches.

Mei Ning.

He should have recognized the name. The name suddenly surfaced from somewhere deep, like a stone at the bottom of the water, stirred up by something, and pulled out of the silt, making his chest ache.

Who is Mei Ning?

Back in the living room, my sister was already back on the sofa, continuing to knit.

"Sis," Zhou Yu suddenly asked, "are you knitting a sweater or a scarf?"

The older sister stopped.

She looked down at the fabric in her hands, stared for a moment, as if she herself was somewhat unsure, "A scarf," she said, then looked down again and continued knitting, "It's a scarf, almost finished."

Mom chuckled beside her, "Your sister's memory hasn't been very good these past few days; she keeps forgetting things."

Zhou Yu looked at the fabric in his sister's hand. It was dark blue yarn, woven into a narrow strip, which did indeed look like the width of a scarf.

But the scarf was very long, hanging down from her sister's knees and piling up at her feet in a large heap. Zhou Yu looked down along the scarf all the way to the ground.

The ball of yarn was at my sister's feet in an old plastic bag, containing the remaining yarn, not much left.

The other end of the scarf extended from the plastic bag, past her sister's knees, past her fingertips, and down to the ground.

On the ground, the scarf continued to stretch into the distance.

Zhou Yu's gaze followed it.

The scarf went around the table leg, under the chair, past the dustpan in the corner, past the old cotton shoes by the door, all the way to the doorway, and then slipped out through the crack in the door.

Zhou Yu looked at the crack in the door and suddenly felt a chill.

"Sister," he said softly, "how long is your scarf?"

The older sister did not answer.

The knitting needles are still clicking, tap, tap, tap.

His mother picked up another piece of meat for him. As her chopsticks reached over, Zhou Yu noticed her hands, hands he recognized very well.

But now those hands are covered in cracks.

Zhou Yu shifted his gaze to the table.

On the table were scrambled eggs with tomatoes, stir-fried vegetables with tofu, and a plate of braised pork. The dishes were steaming, and the steam rose up and swirled in the dim light.

He stared at the steam for a few seconds.

Suddenly I realized something.

He just washed the dishes; he put them in the kitchen himself and washed them by hand.

Zhou Yu looked at the steam and suddenly realized that it hadn't dissipated.

The heat rose to mid-air and then stopped rising. Instead, it seemed to be blocked by something, slowly spreading out along the ceiling and accumulating thicker and thicker.

The lights dimmed beneath the clouds.

"Eat up," Mom said, her voice still so gentle, "It won't taste good when it's cold."

Zhou Yu lowered his head.

The rice in the bowl was still hot.

He took a deep breath.

"Sister," he said, "that's enough, you don't need to knit anymore."

My sister stopped moving again.

This time, the stop lasted even longer.

She slowly raised her head and looked at Zhou Yu. Her face was still the same, not pretty, somewhat haggard, with faint dark circles under her eyes. She looked at Zhou Yu.

Then her eyes reddened.

"Xiaoyu," she said softly, "what's wrong?"

The moment those words were spoken, the entire room fell silent.

The knitting needles have stopped making noise.

The mother's hand, which was holding a chopstick, was suspended in mid-air, motionless, like a wax figure.

The heat from the ceiling stopped flowing and condensed into a thick layer of gray cloud.

The old man smoking under the old locust tree outside the window is gone, leaving only an empty stone stool and a half-burnt cigarette beside it.

He remembered.

Or rather, he allowed himself to "know".

"Sister," Zhou Yu called out.

She responded with a soft "Mm".

"Have the plum blossoms bloomed yet?"

She froze for a moment.

Then she smiled, and a few fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. That smile made Zhou Yu's heart tighten suddenly. Regardless of whether the illusion was real or not, this smile was real.

"Not yet, it will be in the twelfth lunar month."

Zhou Yu didn't laugh. He looked at her, at her eyes, at the tears she was desperately holding back in those eyes that resembled his own.

"Then why did you bring back those?" He pointed to the glass bottles on the windowsill. "Is it December now?"

His sister looked in the direction he was pointing.

The glass bottle is still on the windowsill, the water is clear, the branches are stuck at an angle, and the flower buds are tightly wrapped together, dark red, one by one.

Like fire-evil crystal.

She did not speak.

Zhou Yu remained silent.

The light outside the window dimmed a little more. It wasn't that it was getting late; it was just that the hazy light itself was fading. The kitchen light also dimmed and then brightened, then dimmed again, as if the voltage was unstable.

Zhou Yu sat there, his fingers slowly clenching and then slowly loosening.

He neither stood up nor retreated.

He simply picked up his chopsticks again, took a piece of braised pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly.

It still tastes the same, but with a little more soy sauce, the saltiness masks the sweetness, making it rich but not greasy.

He swallowed it.

Then he looked up at his sister, his mother, and the house where he had grown up.

"I know," he said.

His voice was calm, so calm that even he was somewhat surprised.

"I know."

He put down his chopsticks.

The chopsticks landed on the table with a soft sound.

The sound wasn't loud, but the whole room trembled slightly with that soft noise, like a pebble being thrown into water, causing ripples to spread outwards.

The white plaster on the wall fell in a flurry, one corner of the certificate curled up, and a thin crack appeared in the windowpane.

As his sister looked at him, tears finally streamed down her face, one drop at a time, falling onto the endlessly knitted scarf in her hands.

Zhou Yu stood up.

The chair creaked as it was pushed back.

He walked to his sister's side, bent down, and hugged her. Her body was very light, not like a real person. Her shoulders were thin, and her sweater smelled of mothballs.

"Don't knit the scarf," Zhou Yu whispered in her ear, "I'm not cold."

He straightened up and walked to his mother.

Mom remained motionless, still holding the food in her chopsticks, her expression frozen in a gentle smile.

Zhou Yu stared at her face for a long time.

Then he reached out, moved the plate of braised pork closer to himself, picked up his chopsticks, took another piece, and put it in his mouth.

"I'm leaving, Mom."

He turned and walked towards the door.

In the room behind me, the knitting needles started ticking again, tap, tap, tap, one after another, slowly and steadily.

Zhou Yu did not turn around.

He gripped the doorknob and turned it.

Outside the door was not a corridor, not a stairwell, not that narrow alley, and not that old locust tree.

Outside the door was a passageway with walls as smooth as a mirror.

Dark red mist flowed beneath their feet, and fragments of the Fire Fiend Crystal were scattered all over the ground.

The things in the illusion are fake, but the materials used are real; they were dug out from his own memories, and every fragment is real.

The taste of braised pork was real, the stitches on Mom's patches were real, the way my sister tiptoed to close the window was real, the words worn underneath that no one could see were real, the smell of mothballs was real, and the ticking sound of knitting needles was real.

That scarf that can never be finished is also real.

It's not the scarf that's real, but the thought of "wanting to knit him a scarf" that's real. I'm no longer on Earth, so this scarf can never be finished.

Mei Feng, Hu Biao, and Miss Liu stood in the passageway like three statues, their eyes closed, their eyelids trembling slightly, each with a different expression on their face—the marks etched by their deepest obsessions in their respective illusions.

Mei Feng frowned, his lips pressed into a line, as if he was enduring something. Hu Biao grinned, revealing a silly smile, as if he had seen something good. Miss Liu was expressionless, but there was a very thin tear stain at the corner of her eye.

Looking at their appearance, Zhou Yu found a spot on the edge of the wall and sat down. There are all sorts of illusions, but it is rare to see one that directly covers one's original consciousness. It seems to directly touch the deepest thoughts in a person's heart and then cover them with one's own thoughts.

In other words, if you don't allow yourself to leave this place, you can't leave. It's not the illusion that's deceiving you; you're deceiving yourself. The formation is just triggering your inner thoughts.

Such a formation is quite interesting. Zhou Yu looked into the distance and realized that the master of this place was definitely skilled in formations.

Looking up, Zhou Yu's eyes showed worry again. There are many theories about illusion arrays, but without exception, they cannot be broken from the outside. Only the person in charge can break it. Otherwise, at best, they will become mentally impaired, and at worst, they will die on the spot.