Don't go to the moon, there are gods on the far side of the moon.

The first batch of "Memories of Tomorrow" arrived at breakfast time.

There was no broadcast, no activation of the mobile network, and no alarm was triggered by any device. A hospital nurse, who was tearing open the packaging of a disposable straw, suddenly stopped and said that she remembered that at 10:12 a.m. tomorrow, the child in bed six would knock the medicine cup to the ground.

In my memory, the pale yellow liquid of medicine flowed down the foot of the bed. The child's mother bent down to pick up the cup lid, and the nurse pushed the cart back half a step. The door to the light-blocking ward behind them happened to be ajar.

She didn't see anything inside the door.

All she remembers thinking at the time is: Just as it says on the chart.

At the same minute, the exhibition hall attendant remembered that a boy with a red balloon would stand in front of the Buzhou Mountain model and cry the next afternoon; Chen Rui from the western suburbs remembered that the right rear wheel of the repair car got stuck in a puddle, and Zhou Jianguo told him to put bricks in first and not to touch the manhole cover; the security guard on the roof of Tianheng Building remembered that his wife would call the next night to ask him why he hadn't come home yet.

The simplest way to get the signal from a lighthouse on the far side of the moon is by sending it back.

The recorder remembers that he will misspell a word tomorrow, and then corrects it by hand.

These memories are unlike the previous group rehearsals. They differ in time, place, and detail. Some remember the smell, some only remember a sentence; some saw the door, some have no door at all in their entire memory.

They therefore look more real.

"Don't fill in the details for each other yet," Xu Wangshu said.

A hospital nurse was about to ask if others had also seen the red alert, but swallowed her words. The technician disabled the real-time scrolling of public reports, keeping only the individual reporting entry open. Everyone wrote down what they remembered first, without looking at other nodes, and without using phrases like "everyone" or "everyone."

The first round yielded 473 responses.

No two are exactly alike, yet they all carry the same conviction: This is not imagination, but the tomorrow I have already lived through.

Qin Lan flipped one of the copies to the back: "Is there any body movement?"

"No," Xu Wangshu replied. "Currently, only memories are entering; actual actions remain in place."

"Then let's separate these two 'have's'."

A dual-recording system was temporarily established in the main control cabin.

The left side is a record of reality, only recording what can be measured, photographed, or confirmed by on-site personnel. The nurse has an undisassembled straw in her hand, and six medicine cups are still at the bedside; the exhibition hall is closed for maintenance today, and there are no red balloons; the maintenance vehicle in the western suburbs is parked on the cement ground, and none of its four tires are sinking.

The right side is a record of tomorrow's memories, preserving the original narrative and noting the time of occurrence, duration, and the physical condition of the person involved. It is not called a forecast, nor is it testimony, and it is not included in scheduling, maintenance, or medical decisions.

The two records are written on different colored paper, are not automatically aligned in time, and are not copied by the same person. The left side cannot be filled in with the right side, and the right side cannot be marked as "verified" simply because a similar item appears in reality.

The technician asked, "What if it actually happens tomorrow?"

"What happens tomorrow will be recorded tomorrow," Xu Wangshu said. "We can't use the memories we receive today to write a report for tomorrow."

"But that would cause us to miss the warnings."

"We can address the risks separately, but we can't follow the script exactly." Qin Lan looked at the hospital scene. "If the medicine cup might break, check the floor and the trolley; if the door might open, check the lock. Don't let the child touch the cup, and don't let the nurses stand in the positions they remember."

Risks can be addressed, but they cannot be replayed in the future.

This principle is written on the first page of the dual record book. Xu Wangshu added another: Anyone can refuse to recall details. Forgetting is not considered concealment, remembering incorrectly is not considered dereliction of duty, and when a second version appears, both versions are retained, without forcing the brain to choose the "correct tomorrow".

At 8 a.m., the reports were still increasing. Some suggested a complete work stoppage for a day, sealing off all the doors, and waiting for this batch to arrive tomorrow.

Zhou Jianguo was the first to object.

"The hospital is shut down too? The oxygen delivery door is being welded shut down? If there are no trucks tomorrow, then there's no need for repairs the day after?"

As he spoke, he was scraping mud from the repair window groove with a bamboo stick. Chen Rui, following the new system, sat on the other side taking notes, only writing down the bamboo stick, the mud, and the master's exact words of cursing, omitting the puddle of water that he remembered.

Qin Lan did not issue a complete internet shutdown order.

Life cannot stop because of fear of being exploited. If everyone stops going to work, stops seeking medical treatment, and stops opening necessary doors in order to avoid a pre-written tomorrow, without even actually entering the outside world, it can simply keep providing more and more terrifying memories to make the world cancel the next day itself.

The hospital staff changed shifts as usual. The shaded ward remained in isolation, but the pharmacy door had to be kept open, the fire exit could not be locked from the inside, and the patient in bed six still needed to take medication as prescribed. The nurses placed an extra spare medicine cup in the room and did not take away the child's right to drink water.

The Buzhou Mountain model area in the exhibition hall remained closed, but the information desk facing the street reopened. The first person to ask for directions wasn't the boy with the red balloon, but an elderly man who couldn't find the bus stop. The staff member drew three crooked lines for him and wrote in the logbook: 8:23, blue jacket, asking for directions, no balloon.

After finishing writing, he found it laughable, looked up, and asked, "You even have to remember if there are no balloons?"

"If you don't think it's necessary, just cross it out," Xu Wangshu said.

The clerk thought for a moment, then crossed out the last three words and signed his name next to them. Double recording doesn't turn life into endless verification. If every cup and every color had to be registered, people would still be led astray by that memory.

The vehicle was to be inspected and repaired as originally planned in the western suburbs, but the location was changed to avoid the manhole cover. Zhou Jianguo checked the tires, and Chen Rui went to the warehouse to get a jack; neither of them specifically looked for the puddles they remembered.

The security guard on the rooftop of Tianheng Building left his post when it was time to change shifts. He remembered that his wife would ask him why he wasn't home the next night, so he couldn't waste the day on duty to prove he wasn't affected. The card reader recorded his name and time as usual, and he wrote in the witness column: "Going home for dinner. Whether I work overtime tomorrow, I'll decide tomorrow."

Breakfast was also delivered to the main control cabin.

Xiaoman sat down next to the toolbox with a bowl of porridge that had already formed a crust. She first had the medic confirm the interface, and then tapped the spoon against the observation window for Lin Jibai to hear.

"Did you hear me? I ate it."

"This constitutes noise evidence." The voice inside the box was very soft. "Please allow me to see the actual item."

"Application rejected. Everything you see now is through a fog."

The stability level on the medical screen remains at 39.

Xiaoman finished half a bowl of food, but the value didn't rise; Lin Jibai listened to the return to normalcy at each node, but the value still didn't rise. The medics changed the filters, checked the oxygen supply and the reverse well isolation layer, but Thirty-Nine remained in the same place.

No one suggested upgrading the access.

The existing channel can only hold short sentences, requiring a break after each expression. Lin Jibai complained that they treated him like a pay-per-minute phone call, while Xiaoman retorted that at least pay-per-minute phones wouldn't owe her strawberry yogurt. The two argued for three sentences, then the medic turned off the speakerphone; Thirty-Nine didn't become any better looking as a result.

At 9:06, the paper duty roster changed.

The hospital was the first to discover it. The original gray "Temporary Duty Officer: Zero" did not disappear. The "Zero" first faded from the middle, and the ink spread along the paper fibers, slowly turning into two words.

Liu Min.

It was the nurse who reported tomorrow's memories last night.

The number "Zero" on the exhibition hall list was changed to duty officer Zhang Hui, "Xijiao" to Chen Rui, and "Tianheng Building rooftop" to security guard Jiang Ming. The "Zero" in the delay record of the moonlit lighthouse was changed to the recorder's full name, and even the middle character not registered in the ground system was correct.

The spreadsheet was then refreshed.

The number zero is missing.

It was replaced by 473 specific personal names.

Each name is followed by a personal action yet to occur: Liu Min pushes the medicine cart backward, Zhang Hui greets the child with the red balloon, Chen Rui lays bricks under the repair cart, and Jiang Ming stays on the roof while his wife calls. It no longer claims that a non-existent duty officer will take care of everyone's tomorrow.

It began to claim that everyone would personally complete their own portion.

When Chen Rui saw his name, his face turned pale: "This is my courtesy name."

The signature on the form does indeed resemble his. The last stroke always curves upwards, a style he developed because he found signing material requisition forms troublesome.

Zhou Jianguo turned the form over, without making him put his fingerprint on it or sign it again to prove which one was genuine: "The handwriting looks like yours, and you're here, but that doesn't mean you wrote this line."

Xu Wangshu demanded that all nodes stop deleting names. Deleting names would create empty slots again and could force everyone to prove their identity by using fake signatures. The new rule is only one sentence: a name can only point to a currently verifiable person; it cannot retroactively acknowledge the past or authorize the future.

In the actual scene, Liu Min was counting syringes in front of medicine cabinet number three; Zhang Hui was giving directions to the second person at the information desk; Chen Rui was carrying a jack back; and Jiang Ming had already boarded the subway home.

Tomorrow's memory record will retain those actions that have not yet occurred.

Write your name on both sides.

Neither side can swallow the other.

After a brief period of chaos, the 473 nodes resumed operation. Some people still drifted off, startled by the overly complete vision of tomorrow in their minds; colleagues only reminded them to focus on what needed to be done in the present, without guaranteeing their safety tomorrow. The cafeteria continued to operate, ambulances continued to go out, and the warehouse issued spare parts according to actual needs. Every time a necessary door opened, the reason and the people involved were recorded, without assuming guilt simply because future memories existed.

Before noon, the first batch of memories of tomorrow were all sealed away.

It wasn't about sealing away the person, nor about sealing away tomorrow; it was simply about ceasing further questioning of the details. Xu Wangshu numbered the two sets of records separately, placed the papers into different file boxes, leaving a palm-width gap in between.

The technician was about to generate an index table to facilitate item-by-item retrieval tomorrow when the bottom of the toolbox suddenly beeped three times.

Very light, very slow.

It wasn't Lin Jibai. His speaker was still off, and the micro-motion sensors on his hands weren't sending any signals.

Xiaoman immediately recognized the tapping intervals.

The remaining loop left by Lin Wangchuan lit up for a moment.

This time, there were no missing characters, and no one had to fill in the gaps. The five characters bypassed the mostly broken repair code and appeared directly at the top of the index.

Don't look at your watch.