He woke before dawn.
The curtain wasn't drawn all the way. A thin line of light slipped through the gap, falling on the floor, gray and dim. He stared at it for a few seconds, then sat up. The bed frame creaked. The room was quiet. Quiet enough to hear his own breathing. In. Out.
He put his feet on the floor. Cold. Stood there for a moment, then walked to the window and pulled the curtain open. Outside was still dark. Streetlights were on, orange light spilling over the empty street. He stood at the window. His breath fogged the glass. He wrote one character in the fog, then wiped it away. Couldn't tell what he'd written.
Bathroom. He turned on the faucet. Water cold. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, looked in the mirror. The face in the mirror was a stranger. Dark circles under the eyes. Chapped lips. He touched his own face, then turned and walked out.
Several black jackets hung in the closet. Same style. He took one, zipped it up. From the drawer he took a pair of black gloves, thin. Put them on. From the desk he took his phone and car keys. On the desk also lay a book with no cover. The one he'd bought at the flea market yesterday. He glanced at it, didn't take it.
Walked out. The hallway was quiet. The motion light flicked on, then off. He took the stairs. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Steady. One after another.
A black car was parked downstairs. He opened the door, sat inside. Started the engine. The headlights flashed. He drove off.
---
East side. Flea market.
He arrived at dawn. The market was mostly empty. A few vendors were setting up their stalls. He parked by the roadside, got out, walked in. The ground was wet. It had rained last night. Puddles reflected the gray sky. His footsteps splashed.
He walked to the stall from yesterday. The old man was still there, sitting on a folding stool, a few stacks of old books in front of him. The old man looked up, said nothing.
"That book from yesterday," he said. "Anything else like it?"
The old man shook his head. "Just that one."
"Where did it come from?"
"Picked it up somewhere." A pause. "Can't remember."
He didn't ask again. Crouched down, flipped through the books on the stall. Slowly. Looked at each cover, opened it, flipped a few pages, put it back. The old man didn't rush him. More people came to the market. Footsteps behind him, noisy. He didn't turn around.
He searched for over half an hour. Found nothing. Stood up, took a ten-yuan note from his pocket, put it on the stall.
"Another book. For yesterday's."
The old man looked at the note, didn't take it. "There's no more."
He put the money back and left.
---
Breakfast shop. He sat by the window, a bowl of soy milk and two fried dough sticks in front of him. Didn't touch them. Looked outside. People came and went on the street. Bikes. Walkers. A child holding a parent's hand. He watched for a while, then lowered his head, took a sip of soy milk. Hot. Put the bowl down. Picked up a fried dough stick, took a bite. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Took another bite.
Halfway through, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out. A text from an unsaved number: "Found it. No. 17 Southeast Road. Scrapyard. There's something underneath."
He stared at the screen for a few seconds. Didn't reply. Put the phone back in his pocket. Finished eating. Drank the rest of the soy milk, finished the fried dough sticks. Stood up, walked to the counter, paid, left.
---
No. 17 Southeast Road.
He parked by the roadside, got out. The alley was narrow, old residential buildings on both sides, small ads plastered on the walls. Puddles on the ground. He walked slowly, the soles of his shoes scraping the pavement.
Reached the scrapyard gate. The iron door hung crookedly, a faded sign nailed to it, the words illegible. On the ground by the gate stood a bottle of water. Unopened, condensation on the outside. He glanced at it, didn't touch.
Pushed the door open. Inside, piles of scrap metal. Old refrigerators, discarded tires, dismantled machines. The air smelled of rust and grease. A yellow dog was tied to an iron post. It looked at him but didn't bark.
He walked around the piles to an iron door half-buried in the ground. Concrete slabs pressed down on it. There were signs they'd been moved. He crouched, examined them, then stood. Didn't touch.
Stood there for a while. Wind blew. The iron door creaked. He turned and left.
Back in the car. He took out his phone, read the text again. Then dialed a number.
"I'm there."
A voice on the other end.
"Someone's been here. The concrete slabs were moved."
The voice said something else.
"I know. I'll look into it."
Hung up. Put the phone away. Started the car. Drove off.
---
He lived on the west side. An old residential building, sixth floor, no elevator. The stairwell was dark, a few motion lights broken, flickering. He climbed the stairs. Steady pace. Reached the sixth floor, took out his keys, opened the door, went in. Closed it.
The room wasn't big. A bed, a desk, a chair. The book with no cover was still on the desk. He sat down, picked it up, opened it to the middle page. The pencil handwriting: "No. 17 Southeast Road. Below."
Stared at it for a long time. Then closed the book and put it back on the desk. From the drawer he took a notebook and opened it. The notebook was already half full, dense with handwriting. He flipped to the last page, picked up a pen, and wrote:
No. 17 Southeast Road, scrapyard, basement. Someone's been there. Concrete slabs moved. Lock broken. Not one of us.
Closed the notebook, put it back in the drawer.
Stood up, walked to the window. The sky was almost dark. Thick clouds hid the moon. In the distance, a streetlight. Beneath it, a moth circled the bulb. He watched it for a while. Then turned, walked to the bed, sat down. Took off his shoes. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a map.
He closed his eyes.
Thought of a long time ago. Someone. Somewhere. Didn't remember. Not forgot. Just didn't want to.
Turned over. Wind outside. The curtain puffed up. Moonlight on the floor, deathly pale.
He didn't move.
---
The next morning, he went back to Southeast Road.
This time, he didn't go into the scrapyard. Stood at the entrance of the alley, looking at the iron gate. Wind blew. The gate creaked. The yellow dog barked once, then stopped.
He stood there for a long time. Long enough for someone to come out of the alley, glance at him, and walk away. Long enough for the sun to rise from the east and climb to its peak.
Then he turned and left.
Back in the car. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
"I need information on someone."
A voice on the other end.
"A Dreamkeeper. Old Zhou. Librarian of the Abyss."
The voice said something.
"Yes. Him."
Hung up. Started the car. Drove off.
---
Afternoon. He went to a library.
Not the Abyss. The city library, downtown. He walked in, went to the second floor reading room, took a seat by the window. Opened a book in front of him. Didn't read. Looked outside.
People came and went on the street. Someone waited at a bus stop. Someone rode an electric scooter through the crowd. Someone stood on the curb, talking on the phone. He watched for a while, then lowered his head and flipped a page. Didn't read. Flipped another.
Sat there for about an hour. Then stood, returned the book to the shelf, walked out.
At the entrance, he brushed past a young man. The young man wore a hoodie, headphones, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced at the young man's face, then looked away. The young man didn't see him.
He walked out. Sunlight hit his face, bright. He squinted, then walked on.
---
Night. He sat at his desk, the notebook open in front of him. Flipped to the page on Old Zhou. It read:
Old Zhou. Abyss librarian. Dreamkeeper. Age unknown. Origin unknown. Appears in a photo from fifty years ago, looks the same.
He stared at those lines for a long time. Then picked up his pen and added below:
He may know about the fragments.
Closed the notebook, put it back in the drawer.
Stood up, walked to the window. Outside was dark. Streetlights on, orange light on the ground. No moth. Only fallen leaves.
He stood there, not moving.
(End of Chapter 9)