Dream Ghost

The search for the holder of the sixth fragment went more smoothly than expected, but it was also more unsettling than anticipated.

Zhou Zhou spent three days sifting through the national medical system to compile a list. The list was small, seventeen people. The selection criteria were: sudden, unexplained fluctuations in consciousness within the past three months, no history of mental illness, no history of drug abuse, and ages between eighteen and thirty-five. The seventeen individuals were distributed across six provinces. Three of them were within the region covered by the East China branch, all within their respective provinces; the furthest was less than two hundred kilometers from the association headquarters.

"This person." Zhou Zhou enlarged a photograph and projected it onto the conference room's large screen. A young man, in his early twenties, thin, wearing glasses and a plaid shirt, stood in front of a bookshelf, holding a book. The photo was taken in the university library; the lighting was excellent, clearly illuminating his face—ordinary features, ordinary hairstyle, ordinary clothes—the kind of ordinary that you'd easily lose in a crowd.

"Zhao Lin, 22 years old, a third-year student majoring in Chinese at the Provincial Normal University. Three months ago, he began having frequent nightmares. Records from the school's psychological counseling center show that he described his dreams as 'always having the same symbols, like words but not words, like pictures but not pictures.' The counselor suggested he see a psychiatrist, but he didn't. Two weeks ago, he started suddenly standing up in class and saying things that were unintelligible, like some kind of ancient language. His classmates thought he was joking, and his teachers thought he had a mental problem. But he has no history of mental illness." Zhou Zhou turned to the next page, "Yesterday, he collapsed in his dormitory. His roommate said he was lying on the bed with his eyes open, but he couldn't be woken up. The school doctor examined him and suggested taking him to the hospital, but he woke up again at the hospital, saying, 'It's nothing, I'm just too tired.' The doctor couldn't find anything wrong and told him to go home and rest."

The meeting room was silent for a few seconds.

"He's awakening," Gu Yan said. "The fragments are eroding his consciousness. The frequency is increasing, and the intervals are getting shorter. He might wake up today, but he might not wake up next time."

"Where is he?" Lin Ye asked.

"Provincial Normal University. It's 160 kilometers from here." Zhou Zhou pulled up a map, and a red marker flashed on the screen. "I've contacted the university and invited him to participate in a free sleep monitoring program under the guise of 'Clinical Research on Sleep Disorders.' He agreed and will come to the association headquarters tomorrow afternoon."

Lin Ye stared at the ordinary face on the screen—a bespectacled man standing in front of a bookshelf. Twenty-one years old, a third-year Chinese literature major. He loved reading, and probably writing too. He had strange dreams, but attributed them to excessive pressure. He spoke in class in a way he couldn't understand, and his classmates took it as a joke. A fragment from three thousand years ago clung to his consciousness, slowly consuming him. He didn't know. He knew nothing.

"Who will contact him when he arrives tomorrow?" Chen Xuan asked.

"Me," Lin Ye said, "I studied psychology, so I understand his feelings."

Chen Xuan looked at him, neither saying "good" nor "bad." He simply nodded.

Su Wanning sat next to Lin Ye without speaking. Her hand, hidden under the table, held Lin Ye's. Her hand was cool; his was warm. In the shadow of the conference table, their hands clasped quietly, unseen by anyone.

The next afternoon, Zhao Lin arrived at the association headquarters on time.

He was wearing that plaid shirt, carrying a backpack, and holding a bottle of mineral water. He looked thinner than in the photo, with prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and heavy dark circles. But his eyes were bright, not the kind of bright that's spirited, but the kind of bright that comes from long-term insomnia and a highly tense nerve, like a string about to snap.

Lin Ye met him at the association's entrance, wearing a white coat and a badge that read "Clinical Psychology Department" on his chest. This was a fake badge he had Zhou Zhou make; the handwriting, color, and font were exactly the same as those from a legitimate hospital. Zhao Lin glanced at the badge, then at Lin Ye's face.

"You look very young," Zhao Lin said.

"I just graduated with a master's degree and haven't been working for long." Lin Ye stepped aside to make way for the doorway. "Come in, it's hot outside."

Zhao Lin followed him into the association's headquarters. The corridor was long, the lighting was warm yellow, and some landscape paintings hung on the walls—Chen Xuan had specially ordered them to be hung to create a "hospital" atmosphere. Zhao Lin walked slowly, looking at the paintings on the walls as he went, and stopped in front of an oil painting depicting a lake.

"Is this Monet's style?" he asked.

Lin Ye glanced at him. "You're knowledgeable about painting?"

"Chinese literature majors have to study art history. I got a 90 on that course." Zhao Lin's tone was calm, not boastful, but a statement. He continued walking, his pace quickening slightly.

Lin Ye watched his thin back and thought of a question—a talented, book-loving, third-year Chinese literature major, whose consciousness harbored a fragment from three thousand years ago. That fragment would invade his dreams while he slept, showing him unfamiliar symbols, characters, and architecture. He tried to understand them, but couldn't. He tried to forget them, but couldn't. They burrowed into his brain like worms, staying hidden during the day and emerging at night. He grew increasingly tired, thinner, and less like himself. Yet he still studied, still took exams, and even scored ninety points.

Lin Ye led Zhao Lin into a room decorated like a psychological counseling room. There was a sofa, a coffee table, green plants, and soft lighting. Zhao Lin sat down on the sofa, placing his backpack at his feet and a bottle of mineral water on the coffee table. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering briefly on the green plants before returning to his seat.

"Is this the counseling room?" he asked.

"A routine interview before sleep monitoring." Lin Ye sat down opposite him, holding a folder in her hand. "To understand your sleep patterns, lifestyle habits, and mental state. It will take about an hour."

"Go ahead and ask." Zhao Lin leaned back on the sofa, his hands crossed on his knees. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were not. His gaze swept over Lin Ye's face, as if scanning for something.

Lin Ye opened the folder; the first page contained questions he had prepared beforehand. They were standard, unremarkable questions about sleep, diet, exercise, and academic stress. Zhao Lin answered quickly, his voice soft but clear. His answers were precise, like reciting a text. Lin Ye took notes while observing his micro-expressions—his lips twitched slightly when he mentioned "dreams," and his fingers clenched his knees when he mentioned "symbols."

"Have you been dreaming lately?" Lin Ye finally asked the core question.

Zhao Lin clenched his fingers on his knee for a moment, then relaxed them.

"Do."

What type of dream?

Zhao Lin was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the mineral water bottle on the coffee table, the water droplets on the bottle shimmering under the light.

"Strange dreams," he said. "The same symbols always appear in my dreams. Like characters, but not Chinese, not English, not any language I know. Like pictures, but not paintings. Each symbol has a fixed shape, fixed strokes, a fixed order. I try to write them down, but I remember nothing when I wake up. Only the feeling in the dream remains—that feeling of 'This symbol is important, I must remember it.' But I can't remember it. I can never remember it."

Lin Ye looked at him. His eyes were red, but he wasn't crying. His voice was steady, but Lin Ye could hear something beneath the steadiness—not fear, but despair. The kind of despair you want to remember but can't, you want to understand but can't, you want to escape but can't.

"When did you start having these dreams?"

"Three months ago. On the first day of school, I returned to my dorm, lay on my bed, and closed my eyes. And then it began. Every night it was the same dream, the same symbols, the same feeling. Not a single day was missed."

"Did you try to stop it?"

"I've tried. Not sleeping. But I can't last three days. On the third night, I just pass out, and then the dreams become longer, clearer, and more terrifying." Zhao Lin lowered his head, looking at his hands. His hands were trembling, slightly, but uncontrollably. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't believe in ghosts or gods, I don't believe in the supernatural, I don't believe in anything that science can't explain. But I can't explain my own dreams. I studied literature for three years, read thousands of books, and wrote hundreds of thousands of words. I can't find a single word to describe my dreams."

Lin Ye was silent for a few seconds. He closed the folder and placed it on the coffee table.

"Zhao Lin, you might not believe what I'm about to tell you. But every word I say is true. You don't need to believe it now; you just need to remember it."

Zhao Lin looked up at him. His eyes were bright, not the kind of bright that shines, but the kind of bright that comes from long-term insomnia and a highly tense nerve, like a string about to snap.

"Your dream isn't filled with symbols. It's a kind of writing. Three thousand years ago, the earliest dreamers used a writing system. Each symbol represents a rule of the dream. You dream of them because there's a fragment in your consciousness. Three thousand years ago, a night watchman named Lin Yuanshan sealed the sixth fragment into the bloodline of his descendants. You are his descendant. That fragment has been dormant within you for twenty-two years, and now it has awakened. It's trying to communicate with you, but it doesn't know how to do it in a way you can understand. It can only use its own language. You can't understand it, but you feel it. That feeling that 'this symbol is important' isn't an illusion. It's real."

Zhao Lin stared at him for a long time.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Lin Ye. I am also a fragment holder. The third one."

Zhao Lin's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He lowered his head, looking at his trembling hands.

"Am I not crazy?"

"You are not."

"Are those symbols real?"

"It's true."

"Will I die?"

Lin Ye remained silent for a few seconds.

"No. As long as you cooperate with us."

Zhao Lin looked up at him. For the first time, something appeared in those eyes that wasn't tense, tired, or desperate. It was hope. A very faint hope, like a candle flame about to go out.

"What do I need to do?" he asked.

Lin Ye looked at him, at those eyes that had finally relaxed a little.

"Eat first. You look very hungry."

Zhao Lin paused for a moment. Then he smiled. Not the polite, social smile, but the kind of smile that comes from being suddenly asked "Are you hungry?" and realizing your stomach is actually growling, tinged with a little embarrassment.

"I'm a little hungry," he said.

Lin Ye stood up, walked to the door, and looked back at him.

"The cafeteria has braised pork today."

Zhao Lin stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his bottled water, and followed Lin Ye out of the room. In the hallway, Su Wanning leaned against the wall, holding two cups of coffee. She handed one to Lin Ye and the other to Zhao Lin. Zhao Lin took the coffee, looking at Su Wanning, then at Lin Ye.

"Your girlfriend?" he asked.

Lin Ye glanced at Su Wanning. Su Wanning glanced at Lin Ye.

"Yes," Lin Ye said.

"No," Su Wanning said.

The two men spoke at the same time, giving two different answers. Zhao Lin, holding his coffee, stood between them, his lips twitching slightly.

"You two should agree on what to say first," he said.

Lin Ye and Su Wanning exchanged a glance. Their ears turned red at the same time, but neither of them said anything more.

In the cafeteria, Zhao Lin ate two bowls of rice, a serving of braised pork, a serving of scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and a bowl of seaweed and egg drop soup. He ate slowly but attentively, chewing each bite for a long time, as if savoring the flavor—not the wolfing down of food after a long period of hunger, but the slow, deliberate eating of someone finally able to eat in peace. Lin Ye sat opposite him, with only a bowl of porridge in front of him; he wasn't very hungry. Su Wanning sat next to Lin Ye, with a cup of coffee in front of her; she had already had it on the rooftop.

"What do you do here?" Zhao Lin asked while eating.

"A sleep disorder research institution," Lin Ye said.

"Liar." Zhao Lin picked up a piece of braised pork, chewed it, and said, "That room wasn't a counseling room, it was an interrogation room. The sofa was too hard; a real counseling room wouldn't have such a hard sofa. The plants were fake; a real counseling room wouldn't use fake plants. The lights were too bright; a real counseling room would have dimmer lights. You're not doctors, and you're not researchers. You're—some kind of secret organization. Like in the movies."

Lin Ye looked at him.

"You have a very good eye for observation."

"Chinese literature majors need to learn close reading." Zhao Lin finished the last bite of rice, put down his chopsticks, and said, "I read a book a hundred times, making sure I see every single word. I've gotten used to it."

Lin Ye and Su Wanning exchanged a glance.

"You guessed right," Lin Ye said. "We're not a sleep disorder research institution. We're the Nightmare Hunter Association. We specialize in handling cases related to 'strange dreams' like yours."

Zhao Lin picked up the seaweed and egg drop soup and took a sip.

"Can you cure me?"

"Yes, but I need your cooperation."

"How can we cooperate?"

"Let me enter your dream. Find that fragment. Peel it from your consciousness."

Zhao Lin put down the soup bowl and looked at Lin Ye.

"Enter my dream? Like in the movies?"

"Like in the movies."

Zhao Lin remained silent for a few seconds.

"Does it hurt?"

"It won't hurt. But it might be tiring."

Zhao Lin lowered his head, looking at the empty bowl in front of him. The rice was gone, the vegetables were gone, the soup was gone. He had never eaten so much in front of strangers before. But he didn't feel embarrassed, because he hadn't eaten a meal peacefully in a long time. For three months, he'd had nightmares every night, felt drowsy during the day, and everything tasted bland. Today, however, he tasted flavor. The sweetness of the braised pork, the sourness of the scrambled eggs with tomatoes, the saltiness of the seaweed and egg drop soup. He tasted it, because he was no longer afraid. No longer afraid of having nightmares again tonight. No longer afraid of suddenly standing up in class tomorrow and saying things he couldn't understand. No longer afraid of going crazy, of dying.

"When will it start?" he asked.

"tonight."

Zhao Lin nodded.

"it is good."