Zhou Qiming realized that he could no longer tell when it had begun—
the mornings, waking up, no longer entirely certain.
It wasn't that he forgot the date, nor that he couldn't tell whether he was at home or at the office. Those basic facts remained intact, almost mechanically so. He knew what time he woke up, when he needed to leave, which subway station made the transfer easier, which convenience store's coffee machine had broken once and later been fixed.
Yet in that first moment of waking, his body would pause.
As if waiting for a confirmation that did not exist, and never would.
He lay there with his eyes open, staring at the water stain on the ceiling left by the previous tenant. Its shape vaguely resembled a map, though he had never tried to decipher it. The stain had been there since the day he moved in—never shifting, never spreading. The landlord said it didn't affect daily use, so he had let it be.
Lately, however, he found himself lingering on it for a few extra seconds.
Not thinking.
Just looking.
Only when a car passed outside and its headlights swept across the room did he slowly sit up.
His body felt neither unwell nor fatigued. His movements were simply a little slower than before—
as if an extra sliver of time had appeared, with nowhere to be placed.
While washing up, he studied his reflection in the mirror.
The face showed no obvious change. The placement of the features was familiar; the expression, not unfamiliar. He could tell it was a face long accustomed to indoor light—slightly gray in tone, with faint pressure marks beneath the eyes, nothing severe.
Only the sense of being actively used had weakened.
Like a machine still running, but no longer displaying its real-time status.
He turned on the faucet. The water flowed steadily. After washing his face, he didn't turn it off right away, watching the stream slide down the basin wall and disappear into the drain.
The image produced a brief illusion—
as though something else was being carried away the same way.
When he left the apartment, he took his keys, then reflexively patted his pocket to make sure his phone was still there.
The lock clicked shut.
In that instant, he couldn't remember whether he had turned off the lights. The thought came abruptly. He stood at the door for two seconds, staring at it, then chose not to open it again.
He would see it when he came back.
Morning rush hour at the subway station unfolded as usual. The crowd formed a stable current in front of the turnstiles—no pushing, almost no gaps. Everyone knew where they were going, even if they didn't want to be there.
Zhou Qiming stood on the escalator, looking at the back of the person in front of him. The man wore a faded backpack, its zipper slightly crooked. A company anniversary pin hung from it, outdated in design.
He suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd noticed details like this.
It hadn't always been this way.
Before, his attention would drift naturally to people's shoes, the watches on their wrists, the advertising text reflected in the subway glass. None of it mattered, yet it would enter his vision and just as naturally be forgotten.
Now, it seemed that only with deliberate effort did things truly register.
When the train arrived, wind surged out of the tunnel, carrying a damp metallic smell. He didn't push forward. He waited for the crowd to shift before stepping on.
At the moment the doors closed, his body registered a barely perceptible response.
Not tension.
Not anticipation.
More like a reflex that had existed long before he noticed it.
He couldn't say where it came from. Once the carriage settled into motion, it faded.
He arrived at the office seven minutes earlier than usual.
The lighting in Building B's lobby remained cold. The reception wall displayed a new slogan in a flatter typeface. He swiped his card; the reader emitted its familiar beep.
Short. Clean. Emotionless.
It occurred to him that if one day this sound disappeared, he probably wouldn't notice immediately.
There were only three people in the elevator.
No one spoke. The air felt complete in its silence. As the elevator ascended, he felt a brief emptiness underfoot—a moment of weightlessness before being pulled back.
The sensation reminded him of another place.
A place with no up, no down.
No announcement of arrival.
The thought barely formed before he shifted his gaze, fixing it on the narrow strip of reflection on the elevator doors.
He wasn't sure why he did so.
Only that it felt like the wrong moment to think about it.
The monitor at his workstation was already on.
The system had logged him in automatically. The task list appeared—shorter than before. The reduction wasn't dramatic, but it was noticeable.
He sat down and placed his backpack by his feet.
He didn't open the tasks right away.
The pause surprised him. For years, adjustment had been unnecessary. Sit down, hand to mouse, interfaces change, judgment begins.
Now, he needed a transition.
As if he had just stepped out of another environment and hadn't yet adjusted to the density of the air.
He opened the first task.
As the screen loaded, the familiar sense of separation returned. Emotion stayed outside. Judgment became clean. His fingers moved steadily, with almost no hesitation.
Yet midway through, his mind drifted.
Not because of the content—
but because it suddenly became clear that these tasks no longer required him.
The system recorded his decisions while learning from them. Each confirmation became higher-weighted data. Boundaries that once required his presence were being dismantled, categorized, absorbed.
He knew this.
He knew it was reasonable.
And yet, realizing it brought neither anger nor grief—only a blankness he couldn't name.
Like having already said goodbye, without knowing to whom.
At lunchtime, he stayed at his desk.
The takeout sat beside him. Once opened, the steam dissipated quickly. He ate neither fast nor slow, maintaining a familiar efficiency.
Nearby, colleagues discussed test results from the new system, their voices edged with excitement. He understood every term, but didn't join in.
He realized he was already outside the discussion.
Not excluded.
Withdrawn.
During the break, he didn't sleep.
He leaned back with his eyes closed. The hum of the air conditioner remained steady. People stood, fetched water, chairs scraped intermittently.
The sounds anchored him to reality.
Yet in one brief moment, he felt a shift.
Very slight—
as if his consciousness had been tugged backward.
He opened his eyes immediately.
The ceiling lights were unchanged. The time in the corner of the screen advanced second by second, without skipping.
He looked down at his hands.
They were still there.
Only the sense of certainty was weaker than before.
The afternoon passed without incident. No efficiency warnings. No new alerts. He completed his tasks, the total landing precisely near the required threshold.
When it was time to leave, he didn't stand up right away.
He remained seated as people around him packed up, card swipes and farewells gradually thinning out.
Only when the floor was left with scattered lights did he stand.
Outside, night had already fallen.
The streetlights came on with precise timing, as if controlled by an unseen system. He stopped at the entrance.
There was no clear reason.
His body simply didn't move forward.
In that moment, a thought surfaced—
if he didn't go home now, he couldn't think of anywhere else to go.
The thought kept him there a little longer.
Wind threaded between the buildings, carrying the chill of night. He looked up. The clouds were thick; no stars visible.
He remembered that place.
The light there had no source.
No need to look up.
The thought brought no distinct emotion.
It simply remained.
As if waiting.