Chapter 32 — The Boy From Spring Willow House

At 6:57 in the morning, Lu Xiaoxiao asked a dangerous question.

“Daddy.”

Lu Chen continued packing her lunch.

“Yes?”

“If I remember someone else doing homework…”

“No.”

She frowned.

“You didn’t hear question.”

“I heard enough.”

“What if I remember all answers?”

“You still do your homework.”

“But already know.”

“Then it will be easy.”

Xiaoxiao looked deeply disappointed by the failure of philosophy.

She poked a piece of egg with her chopsticks.

“What if memory says I already did it?”

“Show me the paper.”

“What if paper remembers?”

Lu Chen stopped.

Slowly turned.

His daughter was smiling.

“You are doing this on purpose.”

“Yes.”

He stared.

She took another bite.

“Uncle Jian says questions make people stronger.”

“Your Uncle Jian says many irresponsible things.”

“He said you ask too many questions too.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“I am a physician.”

Xiaoxiao thought about that.

Then:

“Doctor can be annoying professionally.”

Lu Chen closed his eyes.

Jian Wei’s consultation fee had now become theoretical.

No mortal possessed enough money.

Qin Ruoxi arrived before kindergarten departure.

Her left hand was normal.

No numbness overnight.

No dream.

No palpitations.

Lu Chen checked anyway.

She waited until he finished.

“Are you satisfied?”

“No.”

“I’m healthy.”

“That is different.”

She looked toward Xiaoxiao.

“Does he ever answer normally?”

Xiaoxiao shook her head.

“Doctor.”

Apparently that explained everything.

Ruoxi placed a folder on the table.

“Spring Willow House.”

Lu Chen opened it.

The Qin family had funded the facility for fourteen years.

It had not been an orphanage exactly.

Nor a hospital.

Children recovering from long illnesses, accidents, malnutrition, family emergencies, and prolonged hospitalization stayed there when they no longer needed acute care but were not ready to return home.

Hence the name:

Spring Willow Children’s Convalescent House.

Opened thirty-eight years ago.

Closed twenty-four years ago.

“Why did it close?” Lu Chen asked.

Ruoxi pulled out another page.

“Official reason: funding consolidation.”

“Meaning?”

“The Qin charity network moved pediatric rehabilitation into a newer facility.”

“Anything unusual around closure?”

“Three staff resignations. Two medical leaves.”

She paused.

“One missing child.”

Patient Three.

Lu Chen kept reading.

“File?”

“Missing.”

“Completely?”

“Discharge file is missing. Admission index survived.”

She pointed.

One line.

Male child. Approximate age at admission: four.

Lu Chen looked up.

“Four?”

“Yes.”

That fit.

If the boy entered Spring Willow around the time Luo Wen staged his death twenty-seven years ago, he would have been approximately four.

At the Eastern River fire four years earlier—

perhaps an infant or very young child.

Not necessarily a newborn.

By the time he disappeared twenty-four years ago—

seven or eight.

Close enough to Qin Zhenguo’s recovered memory of eight or nine.

Old memories were rarely perfect calendars.

Good.

“Name?” Lu Chen asked.

Ruoxi shook her head.

“Admission name field deliberately left blank.”

“Who authorized?”

A surviving notation:

Witness Physician instruction.

Luo Wen.

Jian entered the clinic at that moment.

He heard the last sentence.

“Still no name?”

“No.”

He sat.

“Convenient.”

“Intentional.”

“Different?”

“Yes.”

Ruoxi handed him the index.

Jian read.

Then frowned.

“Why would they put a child in a charity home without a legal name?”

“Protection,” Ruoxi said.

“From whom?”

“That is what we’re trying to learn.”

Lu Chen looked toward the index.

A small handwritten notation sat beside the blank name field:

DO NOT REGISTER UNTIL MEMORY EVENTS STOP.

There.

Not merely secrecy.

Medical reason.

Xiaoxiao climbed onto the chair beside Jian.

“How old boy?”

“About your age when he arrived,” Jian said.

Lu Chen looked at him.

“Do not turn this into a bedtime story.”

“I answered.”

Xiaoxiao’s expression became serious.

“Did he have Daddy?”

No one answered immediately.

Ruoxi eventually said:

“We don’t know.”

“Mommy?”

“We don’t know.”

Xiaoxiao frowned.

“That’s sad.”

Then:

“Did Grandpa Qin take care?”

“In a way.”

“Then okay.”

Children had a remarkably low threshold for defining family.

Lu Chen packed the final fruit container into her bag.

“Kindergarten.”

She sighed.

“Adult secret again.”

“Yes.”

“Bring answer.”

“No promises.”

She pointed accusingly.

“Maybe.”

“Go.”

She ran before he could retaliate.

Lu Chen did not go to Spring Willow House immediately.

First—

the living patients.

The Qin family.

Because the words family illness were beginning to become too convenient.

Migraine.

Fainting.

Numbness.

Forgetfulness.

A large family could contain all four without a conspiracy.

He wanted diagnoses.

Not a collection of symptoms forced into one theory.

Dr. Zhao agreed.

Enthusiastically.

Which was becoming concerning.

By 9:18 a.m., four Qin relatives sat in a private outpatient suite at Qin Medical Center.

None looked pleased.

Qin Zhenguo’s younger brother had sent his middle-aged daughter because she had intermittent left-hand numbness.

A twenty-seven-year-old male cousin had fainted twice in the previous year.

A thirty-four-year-old cousin had complained of occasional “memory lapses.”

And one of Qin Zhenguo’s sons had suffered migraines for more than a decade.

Lu Chen looked at the group.

“Today is not a family curse examination.”

The migraine patient raised an eyebrow.

“That was oddly specific.”

“Because your family has been talking.”

Ruoxi looked innocent.

Lu Chen continued.

“We treat each problem separately until evidence connects them.”

Dr. Zhao nodded.

“Finally.”

Lu Chen looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The migraine case came first.

Typical visual aura.

Throbbing unilateral pain.

Light sensitivity.

Family history on the maternal side.

Normal neurological examination.

No Life Meridian anomaly beyond temporary vascular and neural irritation consistent with an active headache pattern.

“Ordinary migraine,” Lu Chen said.

The man looked almost disappointed.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“No ancient seal?”

“No.”

“Poison?”

“No.”

“Cultivation injury?”

“No.”

“So I just have migraines?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“My wife said that.”

“Listen to your wife.”

Ruoxi laughed from the corner.

One problem removed.

Good.

The woman with left-hand numbness came next.

It involved the thumb, index, and middle fingers.

Not Ruoxi’s ulnar pattern.

Worse at night.

Positive provocative test at the wrist.

Dr. Zhao looked toward Lu Chen.

“Carpal tunnel.”

“Likely.”

The woman stared.

“Not the family thing?”

“No evidence.”

“But Ruoxi’s hand—”

“Different fingers. Different pattern. Different mechanism.”

Lu Chen checked her Life Meridian.

No three-line mark.

No abnormal memory loop.

Nothing.

“Treat the wrist.”

She seemed relieved.

Then slightly offended.

“My family dragged me here for carpal tunnel?”

Ruoxi replied dryly:

“You’re welcome.”

Two problems removed.

Better.

The twenty-seven-year-old cousin with fainting was different.

His cardiac studies from the previous year had been labeled probable vasovagal syncope.

Possible.

But Lu Chen asked again.

“What happened before the first episode?”

The man thought.

“I stood up too quickly.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Second?”

“I was sitting.”

That mattered.

“Doing what?”

“Waiting for an executive health screening.”

Ruoxi looked up.

“At Qin Medical Center?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Eight months ago.”

Lu Chen’s expression changed slightly.

“Symptoms immediately before fainting?”

The man frowned.

“Felt strange.”

“Describe strange.”

“Smell.”

“What smell?”

“Camphor.”

Silence.

Jian, standing near the door, stopped moving.

Lu Chen did not react visibly.

“Was there camphor in the room?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anything else?”

The cousin rubbed his arms.

“I heard someone counting.”

“Actual person?”

“I thought so.”

“Words?”

He closed his eyes.

“Seven.”

“Six.”

“Five…”

Then he stopped.

His face changed.

“I’ve never told anyone this.”

“What?”

“The voice was a child.”

Ruoxi straightened.

Lu Chen kept his tone calm.

“Did you see one?”

“No.”

“Any memory?”

The man looked confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Image that felt familiar despite not belonging to the room.”

Long pause.

Then:

“A blue curtain.”

Everyone remained silent.

“And?”

“A cracked cup.”

“Color?”

“White.”

“Anything else?”

“A red string tied around a bedrail.”

There.

Very specific.

“Had you ever been to Spring Willow House?”

“No.”

“Know the name?”

“No.”

Good.

Do not contaminate the witness.

Lu Chen wrote everything down.

“After the episode?”

“I woke on the floor.”

“Heart rate?”

Dr. Zhao checked the archived report.

“Forty-nine briefly.”

Not ordinary vasovagal impossible, but noteworthy.

“Second episode was the screening event?” Lu Chen asked.

“Yes.”

“What about first?”

“Six months earlier.”

“Where?”

“Family charity archive.”

Everyone became still.

“What were you doing?”

“Moving old boxes.”

“From?”

The man looked at Ruoxi.

“Spring Willow records, I think.”

There.

Connection.

Still only one patient.

Not conclusion.

The thirty-four-year-old cousin with “forgetfulness” came last.

Lu Chen asked:

“What do you forget?”

The man looked embarrassed.

“Nothing important.”

“Examples.”

“Why I entered a room.”

“Everyone does that.”

“Names occasionally.”

“Also common.”

“Appointments?”

“Sometimes.”

Ruoxi frowned.

“You missed Grandfather’s birthday dinner.”

“That was work.”

“Twice.”

“It was a long project.”

Lu Chen raised a hand.

Family dispute later.

“Anything unusual?”

The man hesitated.

“Yes.”

Good.

“What?”

“Sometimes I remember things instead.”

That was different.

“Things that happened?”

“I don't know.”

“Your own memories?”

“That is the problem.”

His voice lowered.

“They feel like mine.”

Silence.

“But?”

“I know they can’t be.”

“Example.”

The man looked toward the window.

“I remember sleeping in a room with six beds.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Boarding school?”

“No.”

“Hospital childhood?”

“Appendix at sixteen. Private room.”

“What does the six-bed room look like?”

“Green lower walls.”

Pause.

“White upper walls.”

“A ceiling fan that clicked every fourth turn.”

“Anything else?”

He swallowed.

“Willow branches outside the window.”

Jian’s expression hardened.

Spring Willow.

Perhaps.

But do not tell him.

“People?”

“Sometimes.”

“Faces?”

“Never clear.”

“One person sits beside my bed and reads.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Age?”

“Older.”

“Voice?”

“Soft.”

“What does she read?”

The cousin closed his eyes.

Then:

“Something about a rabbit crossing a river.”

No one spoke.

“Any physical symptoms during the memory?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“My fingers go numb.”

“Which?”

He raised his right hand.

“Usually these two.”

Ring and little finger.

Ulnar-side.

Then:

“My heart slows.”

“How do you know?”

“I wear a smartwatch.”

Records showed heart rate dropping into the low fifties during two episodes.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Not dangerous alone.

But patterned.

“What triggers the memories?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hospital?”

“Twice.”

“Home?”

“Once.”

“Any common object?”

He shook his head.

“Any recent executive health screening?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Seven months ago.”

Same period.

Lu Chen looked toward Ruoxi.

She understood.

No words needed.

After the relatives left, Dr. Zhao closed the door.

“So.”

Lu Chen summarized.

“One migraine.”

“Ordinary.”

“One probable carpal tunnel.”

“Ordinary.”

“One syncope case with foreign sensory-memory episode.”

“Yes.”

“One episodic foreign-memory case with autonomic changes.”

“Yes.”

Ruoxi folded her arms.

“So only two currently fit.”

“Correct.”

She seemed strangely relieved.

“As opposed to the whole family.”

“Yes.”

Jian leaned against the wall.

“And both went through executive screenings here.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Zhao opened the old appointment records.

Same screening suite.

Same month range.

Same machine.

He stopped.

“What?”

Ruoxi asked.

Zhao rotated the screen.

Legacy Meridian/Cardiac Integration Scanner

Everyone stared.

Jian eventually said:

“That sounds fake.”

“It was a pilot adjunct device,” Zhao replied.

“For what?”

“Pulse-wave analysis plus traditional meridian research.”

“Who approved it?”

Zhao checked.

Then his expression soured.

“Luo Jian.”

Of course.

“But?”

Lu Chen asked.

Zhao kept reading.

“Equipment supplied by Hanmei.”

There.

The same infrastructure.

“Still in use?”

“No. Pilot discontinued five months ago.”

“Why?”

“Unreliable readings.”

Ruoxi’s eyes narrowed.

“Or because Luo Jian realized something.”

Possible.

Su Qingyue arrived thirty minutes later.

She had already pulled the Hanmei equipment history.

“The scanner was built from Meridian Conduction Project hardware.”

Lu Chen looked at her.

“Which generation?”

“Third.”

“Any archived patterns loaded?”

“According to official documentation, no patient-specific identity templates.”

“Official.”

“Yes.”

She placed a printed maintenance log on the table.

“Unofficially, there was a calibration package.”

Name:

P3-ECHO

Silence.

Jian straightened.

“Patient Three.”

“Likely,” Su said.

Lu Chen gave her an approving glance.

She noticed.

“Likely.”

“Good.”

Ruoxi looked toward the log.

“What did P3-ECHO do?”

Su shook her head.

“Documentation removed.”

“By?”

“Root account.”

“Shen Yao?”

“Yes.”

Dead authority.

Again.

“Date?”

“Eight months ago.”

The same period the first symptomatic cousin had his screening.

Lu Chen’s expression cooled.

Someone had loaded a preserved Patient Three-associated profile into equipment used on Qin family members.

That did not yet prove it caused symptoms.

But it was no longer a vague family curse.

There was an exposure pathway.

Recent.

Artificial.

Jian looked toward the equipment record.

“So whoever wrote ‘the sickness has already started’ knew because they started it.”

“Maybe,” Ruoxi said.

Everyone looked at her.

She smiled faintly.

“I can use the word too.”

Lu Chen ignored this.

“Could be the same actor.”

“Could be someone monitoring another actor.”

“Yes.”

“No conclusions.”

“Correct.”

Jian sighed.

“Both of you are unbearable.”

They still needed historical comparison.

What did Patient Three actually do?

Not what later researchers believed.

Not what Hanmei categorized.

The original case.

Ordinary records first.

Spring Willow House.

The building still existed.

Barely.

Twenty-four years after closure, the former convalescent home sat behind an overgrown municipal lot on the southern edge of Jiangzhou.

It had been used briefly as a community training center.

Then storage.

Then nothing.

Two stories.

Pale walls.

Green paint still visible near the foundation.

Ruoxi stopped beside Lu Chen.

“Green lower walls.”

“Yes.”

The thirty-four-year-old cousin had described them.

But old institutional colors were not secret.

Could have seen a photograph somewhere.

Do not overstate.

They entered with municipal permission.

Deng Hu had arranged access properly.

No forced lock.

No dramatic gate.

Dust.

Old plaster.

Birds in the roof.

Jian looked upward.

“This is more depressing than the Valley ruins.”

“No bodies,” Lu Chen said.

“Improvement.”

They walked down a corridor.

Room numbers had faded.

At the end—

six beds.

Rusting frames.

One beneath a window.

Willow branches outside.

Ruoxi stopped.

“The memory.”

“Yes.”

Again—

not proof by itself.

The information could exist in old images.

But the clicking ceiling fan remained mounted overhead.

Jian reached up.

Turned it gently.

One rotation.

Two.

Three.

Four—

click.

Everyone went quiet.

Exact.

That detail was less likely to appear in an archive photograph.

Interesting.

Deng Hu checked old room diagrams.

“This was pediatric recovery room three.”

Patient Three.

Maybe coincidence.

Maybe not.

Near one bed—

a thin red string remained tied around the rail.

Faded almost brown.

Ruoxi whispered:

“The fainting memory.”

Yes.

Red string.

Cracked white cup?

They searched.

Nothing.

Do not force every detail.

The building had been emptied repeatedly.

Then Jian crouched near the wall.

“Something carved.”

Lu Chen approached.

Old scratches beneath one bed frame.

Not the phrase they already knew.

Smaller.

Childish.

Marks.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Counting backwards.

The twenty-seven-year-old cousin had heard a child counting.

Everyone became quiet.

This was now much stronger.

“Do not touch anything,” Lu Chen said.

Jian slowly removed his hand from the wall.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Your daughter does that now.”

“Good.”

Ruoxi took photographs.

Then Deng Hu spoke from the doorway.

“We found someone.”

Everyone turned.

“Who?”

“Former nurse.”

Alive.

Living in Jiangzhou.

Name:

Fang Meilan.

Seventy-two.

Worked at Spring Willow House during its final six years.

Head nurse for the last two.

She had agreed to speak.

Fang Meilan lived in a small apartment filled with plants.

Actual plants.

Not spiritual herbs.

Spider plants.

Orchids.

One stubborn cactus.

Lu Chen liked the place immediately.

Fang Meilan herself was thin, silver-haired, and sharp-eyed.

She looked at the group filling her living room.

Then at Deng Hu.

“I agreed to two people.”

Deng Hu immediately stepped outside.

Jian followed after Lu Chen looked at him.

He protested.

“Why me?”

“Because you look like trouble.”

From inside, Fang Meilan called:

“He does.”

Jian stared.

Everyone agreed too easily.

In the end, only Lu Chen and Ruoxi remained.

Good.

Less intimidating.

Fang looked toward Ruoxi.

“Qin family.”

“Yes.”

“You have your grandfather’s eyes.”

Ruoxi smiled faintly.

“You knew him?”

“Everyone knew Mr. Qin. He paid the bills and complained that we spent too much.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He always approved the spending afterward.”

That also sounded like him.

Fang looked toward Lu Chen.

“You’re the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Traditional physician.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Valley?”

Lu Chen became still.

Ruoxi did too.

Fang sighed.

“Then the old men finally failed to keep it buried.”

“Which old men?”

She gave him a look.

“If I say their names, will you ask whether I verified their Origin Pulses?”

Lu Chen almost smiled.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She pointed toward a chair.

“Sit.”

Lu Chen began with the boy.

No leading questions.

“Do you remember a male child admitted without a registered name?”

Fang Meilan’s expression softened immediately.

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“When I met him? Five.”

Good.

She joined after admission.

“How long had he been there?”

“A little over a year.”

“So he arrived around four.”

“Yes.”

Consistent.

“What did staff call him?”

“Nothing official.”

“Nickname?”

She hesitated.

“Some called him Little Willow.”

There.

Alias only.

“Why?”

“He liked sitting under the willow tree.”

Ruoxi wrote it down.

Lu Chen asked:

“Did he know a legal name?”

“No.”

“Did he claim one?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“Once.”

“What did he say?”

Fang smiled sadly.

“He asked whether it mattered.”

Very old question from a child.

“What did you answer?”

“I told him everyone deserved something to be called.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Then call me when dinner is ready.’”

Ruoxi almost laughed.

Lu Chen liked the child immediately.

That was dangerous.

Do not romanticize a case.

“Was he ill?” Lu Chen asked.

Fang considered.

“Physically?”

“Yes.”

“Mostly healthy.”

“Mostly?”

“Slow pulse sometimes.”

“How slow?”

“Forties.”

“Syncope?”

“Once.”

“Neurological problems?”

“No.”

“Development?”

“Normal.”

“Memory?”

Her expression changed.

“There.”

“What?”

“He remembered too much.”

“His own life?”

“No.”

Fang leaned back.

“He remembered ours.”

Silence.

“Explain.”

“At first, we thought he overheard things.”

“Example?”

“One nurse had lost a brother when she was young.”

“Did she tell him?”

“Never.”

“What happened?”

“The boy asked why she still kept her brother’s red marble in the kitchen drawer.”

Ruoxi stopped writing.

“Was there a marble?”

“Yes.”

“Could he have found it?”

“Maybe.”

Good.

Fang appreciated the skepticism.

“Then the cook.”

“What?”

“He had served in the border army before becoming a cook.”

“Public knowledge?”

“No.”

“Boy said his left knee hurt when it rained.”

“That is not enough.”

“Then he described the ditch where the cook was injured.”

Silence.

“Could someone else know?”

“Perhaps.”

Again, careful.

“Then he did it to me.”

There.

“What did he say?”

Fang’s hands tightened.

“He asked why I was afraid of water.”

Ruoxi looked at her.

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“My younger sister nearly drowned when we were children.”

“Did anyone at Spring Willow know?”

“No.”

“Could he have seen a reaction near water?”

“Possibly.”

Good.

Then Fang continued:

“He described my father jumping into the canal.”

Lu Chen’s eyes sharpened.

“You were present?”

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“Eight.”

“The boy described your father?”

“Yes.”

“Appearance?”

“Blue work shirt. One missing sandal.”

Specific.

“Could he have seen a photograph?”

“There is no photograph.”

Better.

“What did Luo Wen think?”

Fang looked at Lu Chen.

“So you know him.”

“We know the name.”

“Do you know the man?”

“Not yet.”

Good answer.

Fang nodded.

“He called it Memory Echo.”

Simple.

No mystical title.

“Contagious?” Ruoxi asked.

Fang shook her head immediately.

“No.”

That mattered.

“How did he know?” Lu Chen asked.

“We kept records.”

“Exposure studies?”

Her face hardened.

“Observation.”

Good correction.

“No experiments on the child?”

“Not while Luo Wen was there.”

Interesting wording.

“Later?”

Fang looked away.

“I refused.”

“Someone asked?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“People from a research group.”

“Hanmei?”

“Company had a different name then.”

“Do you remember?”

“No.”

Good.

No convenient corporate continuity.

“Luo Wen’s conclusion?”

Fang went to a cabinet.

Removed a cloth-wrapped notebook.

Paper.

Of course.

She placed it on the table.

“I was told never to copy this.”

Ruoxi looked at Lu Chen.

He nodded.

No photographs yet.

Ask permission.

“May we read it?”

Fang considered.

Then:

“Yes.”

“May we copy relevant sections later?”

“No.”

Good.

Her terms.

Respect them.

Luo Wen’s handwriting.

Authenticated visually by known samples, though formal comparison could come later.

Heading:

Patient Three — Memory Echo Observation

No name.

Then:

Patient does not appear to transfer identity.

Important.

No borrowed authority observed.

Different from Patient Two.

No evidence that recipients believe themselves to be the remembered person.

Again.

Clear separation.

Next:

Phenomenon appears limited to episodic sensory-autonomic memory.

Lu Chen read twice.

That fit.

Smells.

Sounds.

Pain.

Fear.

Physical responses.

Next:

Patient seems to retain fragments from people encountered during periods of heightened emotion, illness, pain, or prolonged proximity.

So the boy absorbed impressions.

Then:

Under stress, fragments may emerge in nearby individuals who never experienced the original event.

There.

He relayed them.

Fang pointed.

“That is why he carved the sentence.”

I REMEMBER YOU EVEN IF YOU NEVER MET ME.

Not prophecy.

Not threat.

A child trying to describe what was happening.

Lu Chen continued.

Recipients may experience bradycardia, syncope, paresthesia, nausea, fear response, or transient confusion if borrowed autonomic memory conflicts with current physiology.

Exactly current family symptoms.

Then the key line:

No evidence of recipient-to-recipient transmission.

Silence.

Ruoxi looked up.

“So my relatives could not have inherited this from people who cared for him.”

“Not according to Luo Wen’s observations,” Lu Chen said.

Fang nodded.

“When the boy left, the episodes stopped.”

There.

Current Qin symptoms could not simply be a twenty-four-year-old remnant passing through the family.

Something had reintroduced the pattern.

Lu Chen continued reading.

Do not call condition infectious.

Do not call patient contagious.

Good.

Then:

Patient is a relay, not proven source.

That was even more important.

Ruoxi frowned.

“Relay from what?”

Fang shook her head.

“We never learned.”

Luo Wen’s next line:

Unknown whether initial imprint capacity arose from Eastern River exposure, preexisting condition, or interaction with another patient.

Another patient.

Possibly Fourth?

Do not assume.

Next:

Patient Three was physically present near Continuity Room during fire.

There.

Exposure.

Then:

No evidence sufficient to connect Patient Four. Do not combine cases for convenience.

Lu Chen almost smiled.

He and Luo Wen would have gotten along.

Ruoxi noticed.

“Another physician who hates convenient theories.”

“Yes.”

The notebook contained seven years of observations.

Patient Three grew.

Played.

Learned to read.

Disliked carrots.

Loved river stories.

No grand power progression.

No cultivator awakening.

A child.

At age six, he had an episode after a nurse suffered severe appendicitis.

For two days, three people around him experienced phantom abdominal pain.

No inflammation.

No actual disease.

At seven, a visiting father grieving a dead son sat beside him for an hour.

That night, two children dreamed of a funeral they had never attended.

At eight—

the events increased.

“Why?” Lu Chen asked.

Fang pointed toward the entry.

Unknown trigger.

Then:

Possible repeated exposure to preserved records.

“What records?”

Fang’s expression darkened.

“Someone brought old Eastern River materials into the house.”

“Who?”

“We never proved it.”

“Luo Wen?”

“No.”

Certain.

“How?”

“He was furious when he found them.”

“What materials?”

“Pulse-imprint plates.”

Ruoxi’s expression changed.

Same dangerous continuity technology.

“Did they expose the boy?”

“Yes.”

“Deliberately?”

“I believe so.”

Fang’s jaw tightened.

“After that, he started remembering people he had never met.”

Lu Chen stopped.

Different.

Before, he echoed people around him.

Now—

memories from archived records.

People absent.

Dead perhaps.

The system had expanded his relay range.

Someone had turned his condition into a reader.

A biological reader of stored memory.

Similar to what Hanmei later tried with Shen Yulan.

Patterns repeating.

“What did Luo Wen do?” Lu Chen asked.

“He removed everything.”

“Destroyed?”

“Some.”

“Other records?”

“Moved.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then?”

“He said the boy had become a target.”

“By whom?”

“He didn’t say.”

Of course.

“Did he move the boy?”

“He tried.”

“What happened?”

Fang looked toward the window.

“The boy refused.”

Ruoxi frowned.

“He was eight.”

“Yes.”

“Why would his refusal decide?”

Fang looked at her.

“Because he was eight, not furniture.”

Good.

Ruoxi nodded slowly.

“What did he want?”

“To stay until another child recovered.”

“Who?”

“Pneumonia case.”

“Friend?”

“Yes.”

Human.

Good.

“Did Luo Wen allow it?”

“For one week.”

“And then?”

“The boy disappeared on day five.”

Not a planned transfer.

“Taken?” Lu Chen asked.

“We don't know.”

“Signs of struggle?”

“No.”

“Door?”

“Locked.”

“Window?”

“Open.”

“Footprints?”

“One set.”

“Child’s?”

“Probably.”

“Anything missing?”

“His coat.”

“Shoes?”

“Yes.”

“So he may have left voluntarily.”

“Maybe.”

Fang paused.

“Except he left the one thing he never left behind.”

“What?”

She stood.

Walked to another cabinet.

Returned with a small object wrapped in cloth.

A wooden button.

Round.

Poorly carved.

Seven tiny notches around the edge.

“He carried this every day.”

Ruoxi looked.

“What was it?”

“Nothing special.”

“Why important?”

“He said it helped him remember which memories were his.”

Silence.

Lu Chen’s expression changed.

A grounding object.

Like Xiaoxiao’s stuffed rabbit had grounded him when his own sealed memories tempted him.

Human beings finding simple anchors.

“What did he do with it?”

“When he experienced an echo, he counted the notches.”

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The marks carved beneath the bed.

The twenty-seven-year-old cousin heard a child counting backwards because that had been Patient Three’s grounding method.

Excellent.

“Why backwards?” Ruoxi asked.

Fang smiled sadly.

“He said borrowed memories came forward.”

“So he went backward.”

“Yes.”

Child logic.

Effective.

Lu Chen looked at the button.

“Did anyone touch this after he disappeared?”

“Many people, probably.”

“Any memory events?”

“No.”

Good.

Not an artifact.

Just wood.

Important.

“Can we test it?”

“For what?”

“Residue.”

Fang hesitated.

“You do not damage it.”

“I won’t.”

She handed it over.

Lu Chen used Life Meridian perception.

Nothing unusual.

Faint traces of old skin oils.

No spiritual imprint strong enough to matter.

Good.

Not every emotional object needed to become magical.

He returned it.

Fang carefully wrapped it again.

“Why did Spring Willow close?” Ruoxi asked.

“Officially?”

“Funding consolidation.”

“Actually?”

Fang looked toward the notebook.

“The episodes made administrators nervous.”

“Qin family?”

“Some.”

“Luo Wen?”

“No.”

“He wanted the house to remain open.”

“Why?”

“He said closing it would make everyone treat the boy like the disease.”

Good.

“But after the boy disappeared?”

“Three staff left.”

“Why?”

“Fear.”

“Any new episodes?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Six months later, funding moved.”

So closure was not immediate panic.

Good.

No melodramatic conspiracy.

Just institutions consolidating after a disturbing event.

Lu Chen asked:

“Did Qin Zhenguo visit often?”

“Several times.”

“Did he experience echoes?”

Fang looked surprised.

“Yes.”

There.

“What kind?”

“He once remembered a snow-covered bridge.”

“Was it his memory?”

“He said no.”

“Any heart symptoms?”

“Slow pulse.”

That could have been mistaken later for Covenant.

Important.

Qin Zhenguo had two separate mechanisms potentially affecting heart rate:

1. Memory Echo exposure decades ago.
2. Quiet Heart Covenant migration now.

Could overlap.

“Did Luo Wen distinguish them?”

Fang opened another page.

QZ episode does not arise from Covenant.

Excellent.

Then:

Echo response transient. Covenant conduction effect chronic. Do not combine.

Lu Chen almost laughed.

Ruoxi stared.

“What?”

“Luo Wen kept writing the same advice.”

“What advice?”

“Stop combining convenient things.”

She smiled faintly.

Useful principle.

The notebook’s final pages dealt with Patient Three after disappearance.

No direct sighting.

Three possible reports.

None confirmed.

A boy at a train station.

A child boarding a rural bus.

Someone matching his age near East River.

No proof.

Then Luo Wen wrote:

Do not search by face.

Naturally.

Do not search by name. He has none that I trust.

Then:

Search for memory events.

Interesting.

If the boy—or later man—remained a relay, unusual clusters of shared foreign memories might reveal where he had been.

That was likely why Luo Jian later went looking.

His Witness succession dreams could have given him historical details.

Then final medical instruction:

If found as adult, do not assume condition persists. Retest from beginning.

Good.

No lifelong diagnosis without examination.

Lu Chen approved.

Fang Meilan watched him close the notebook.

“You agree with him.”

“With much of this.”

“He was difficult.”

“Most good physicians are.”

Ruoxi looked toward Lu Chen.

He ignored her.

Fang smiled.

“Luo Wen would have liked you.”

“We have not confirmed Consultant W was Luo Wen.”

Fang stared.

Then laughed.

“Definitely.”

Before they left, Fang asked:

“Why now?”

“What?”

“Why are you asking about the boy after twenty-four years?”

Lu Chen did not hide it.

“Two Qin relatives recently experienced memory events resembling these records.”

Fang’s face lost color.

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“How recent?”

“Within the last year.”

“That is impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because recipients do not pass it onward.”

“We know.”

“And the boy disappeared.”

“Yes.”

Fang stood.

“Then someone found a preserved imprint.”

There.

She reached for the notebook.

Turned pages quickly.

Stopped.

A later loose sheet.

Not Luo Wen.

Her handwriting.

“Three months before the boy disappeared, a research group asked us for a calibration sample.”

Ruoxi’s expression hardened.

“What sample?”

“Nothing invasive.”

“What exactly?”

“Pulse recording.”

“From the boy?”

“Yes.”

“Was it taken?”

Fang looked ashamed.

“Yes.”

“Consent?”

“He was a minor.”

“Who authorized?”

“Administrator.”

“Did Luo Wen know?”

“Afterward.”

“How did he react?”

“He nearly broke the machine.”

That sounded promising.

“Was the sample destroyed?”

“He believed so.”

Believed.

Not confirmed.

“What device?”

Fang tried to remember.

“Bronze contacts. Paper output. A large cabinet.”

“Manufacturer?”

“No.”

“Project name?”

She shook her head.

Then:

“There was a symbol.”

“What?”

“Three vertical lines.”

Ruoxi’s left hand tightened.

Quiet Heart?

Maybe not.

Could be early Meridian Conduction research logo.

Need not conflate.

“Anything else?”

“An M.”

Meridian?

Company?

Unknown.

They would investigate.

Outside, Jian was sitting on the car hood eating roasted peanuts.

Deng Hu stood nearby looking resigned.

Jian glanced up.

“Well?”

Lu Chen held up the notes he had written.

“Patient Three had Memory Echo.”

“Which means?”

“He could acquire episodic memory fragments from people or archived meridian-imprint records and, under stress, nearby people could experience those fragments.”

Jian stopped eating.

“Identity transfer?”

“No.”

“Authority?”

“No.”

“Did recipients become him?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Recipients had sensory-autonomic echoes.”

“Heart slowing?”

“Yes.”

“Numbness?”

“Yes.”

“Fainting?”

“Yes.”

Jian’s expression changed.

“Qin family.”

“Two relatives fit.”

“Only two?”

“Only two.”

“Others?”

“Ordinary medicine.”

Jian smiled.

“I knew migraines were suspicious.”

“They were not.”

His smile disappeared.

“Less exciting.”

“Better.”

They returned to Qin Medical Center.

Su Qingyue was waiting with Hanmei equipment records.

“I found P3-ECHO.”

Lu Chen sat.

“Original source?”

“Not Hanmei.”

Good.

“Where?”

“Imported into Hanmei archives eighteen years ago.”

Same time Shuanghe Medical Station closed.

Interesting.

“From?”

“Legacy file identified only as Spring Willow Calibration.”

There.

Strong.

“Data type?”

“Pulse-memory response profile.”

“Patient-specific?”

“Yes.”

So someone had preserved Patient Three’s calibration imprint.

“Was it supposed to be destroyed?”

“No documentation.”

“Who uploaded into Hanmei?”

“Consultant W authorization.”

Everyone went quiet.

If Consultant W was Luo Wen, why preserve it after he opposed such use?

Su continued before they jumped.

“Authorization may be false.”

Good.

“Why?”

“Digital record uses an authority format introduced five years after Consultant W left the project.”

There.

Someone backfilled his identity.

Another stolen or forged authority.

Important.

“So W did not necessarily upload it.”

“No.”

“Who used it eight months ago?”

“Shen Yao root account.”

Dead.

Again.

Ruoxi looked toward the symptomatic family records.

“Both relatives went through the Legacy Meridian scanner after P3-ECHO was loaded.”

“Yes,” Su said.

“Any others?”

They pulled the screening list.

Fourteen Qin family members had used the device.

Only two reported symptoms.

Interesting.

Not universal.

“Why only two?” Jian asked.

Lu Chen looked at medical histories.

One had fainting susceptibility.

One had sleep deprivation and high autonomic variability.

Maybe physiology mattered.

Or dose/exposure differences.

Need more.

“Scanner session lengths?”

Su checked.

Most:

8–12 minutes.

The two symptomatic relatives:

31 minutes.

28 minutes.

Why?

Both scans had repeated failures.

Calibration mismatch — automatic retry.

So repeated exposure.

That fit Luo Wen’s model.

Recognition systems reinforced with repetition.

Maybe repeated P3-ECHO playback caused the episodes.

Lu Chen’s expression hardened.

“Stop using the machine.”

Dr. Zhao replied immediately:

“Already removed from service five months ago.”

“Keep it offline.”

“Yes.”

“No one powers it on.”

“Yes.”

Jian frowned.

“What if we need to examine it?”

“Later.”

“We could learn—”

“By exposing someone again?”

Jian stopped.

“No.”

Good.

Ruoxi looked at her cousin’s records.

“Can we treat them?”

Important.

Not merely investigate.

Lu Chen nodded.

“Likely.”

“How?”

“First remove exposure.”

“Done.”

“Then determine whether the echoes are still active or just remembered.”

“Difference?”

“If the foreign memory is currently embedded in their Life Meridian pathways, we may need to quiet it.”

“And if it is only a normal memory now?”

“Then we do not poke the brain because history is interesting.”

Dr. Zhao nodded firmly.

“Thank you.”

Ruoxi looked between them.

“You really are friends.”

“No.”

Both.

Naturally.

The twenty-seven-year-old cousin agreed to return for examination.

So did the thirty-four-year-old.

Consent obtained.

No secret tests.

No experimental exposure.

Lu Chen examined the first.

Under Life Meridian perception, nothing obvious at first.

Then he asked him to recall the camphor smell.

Not intensify.

Just remember.

A tiny gray-silver loop appeared around the vagal and sensory pathways.

Not foreign Origin Pulse.

Not a graft.

An echo pathway.

Temporary.

When the man stopped recalling, it faded.

Good.

The memory had become encoded partly as an ordinary memory and partly as a residual spiritual-sensory association.

Could probably settle naturally.

“No acupuncture needed today,” Lu Chen said.

The man blinked.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you do something?”

“I am.”

“What?”

“Leaving you alone.”

He looked unconvinced.

Lu Chen continued:

“No more Meridian Integration scanning. Regular sleep. Hydration. Do not deliberately trigger the memory.”

“What if it happens?”

“Sit or lie down. Record heart rate. Note what you remember. Call if you faint.”

“Medicine?”

“Not currently.”

“What about the child counting?”

“Do not answer him.”

The cousin stared.

“Was that a joke?”

“Mostly.”

Ruoxi turned away to hide a smile.

The thirty-four-year-old cousin had a stronger echo pathway.

Not dangerous.

But more persistent.

Lu Chen used two ordinary needles.

No Life Essence at first.

Then a trace.

The man’s breathing changed.

“What do you feel?”

“Warm.”

“Memory?”

“The room.”

“Still clear?”

“Yes.”

Lu Chen adjusted one needle.

“And now?”

The cousin frowned.

“The ceiling fan stopped.”

Interesting.

One sensory component weakened.

Another adjustment.

“Willow tree?”

“Still there.”

“Woman reading?”

“Yes.”

“Your heart rate?”

Dr. Zhao checked.

Normal.

Good.

Lu Chen was not deleting memory.

That would be wrong.

He was decoupling the involuntary autonomic response from the foreign episodic fragment.

After fifteen minutes, the man could recall the room without finger numbness.

Success.

Small.

Medical.

No acknowledged life.

No power increase.

Exactly as it should be.

Ruoxi watched.

“So you can remove the memories?”

“No.”

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They are memories now.”

“Even though they weren’t originally his.”

“He experienced them.”

That made them part of his current mind.

“Then what did you treat?”

“The abnormal physiological coupling.”

The foreign memory no longer needed to slow his heart or numb his fingers.

Important ethical line.

Ruoxi nodded.

Good.

That evening, they went back through the Spring Willow descriptions.

Red string.

Clicking fan.

Camphor.

Countdown.

The two Qin relatives had echoed details from Patient Three’s historical environment.

Not from Patient Three’s personal identity.

That confirmed the P3-ECHO calibration likely contained Spring Willow-associated memory material.

Someone had used an old medical imprint to recreate Memory Echo symptoms in current people.

Artificially.

The Qin family was not suffering from a hereditary disease.

At least not this part.

Someone had exposed selected family members through the scanner.

Why?

Ruoxi answered first.

“To make Grandfather believe Pei’s warning had come true.”

Silence.

That was plausible.

Open it only when the Qin family starts getting sick.

Someone needed symptoms.

So they created them.

Then left a note at the black chest:

THE SICKNESS HAS ALREADY STARTED.

Trying to push Qin toward opening it.

Jian’s expression hardened.

“They manufactured the condition needed for the lock.”

“Not necessarily the lock,” Lu Chen corrected.

“The release instruction.”

Right.

The third mechanical lock still required Qin’s own remembered condition.

But creating family illness could pressure him emotionally into forcing his memory.

Which might cause cardiac harm.

Or premature succession.

Either outcome could make Ruoxi the key.

A chain.

Very deliberate.

Su Qingyue looked toward the Hanmei root-access log.

“Then whoever loaded P3-ECHO knew Pei’s warning.”

“Yes.”

Ruoxi added:

“And knew the Qin family would eventually investigate.”

“Yes.”

“And knew enough about the Covenant to activate me.”

“Yes.”

Jian folded his arms.

“Registrar?”

Lu Chen shook his head.

“Unknown.”

“First Infiltrator?”

“Unknown.”

“Luo Jian?”

“Evidence increasingly suggests he was trying to stop parts of it.”

“Luo Wen?”

“Unknown status.”

Jian sighed.

“Can we at least say enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

Someone had deliberately induced Memory Echo symptoms in Qin family members.

That act was hostile.

The actor’s identity remained unknown.

Good distinction.

Then Ruoxi’s phone rang.

Deng Hu.

She answered.

“What did you find?”

A pause.

Her expression changed.

“Send it.”

She ended the call.

“What?” Lu Chen asked.

“The Spring Willow calibration request.”

Fang Meilan had remembered a research group took a pulse recording months before Patient Three disappeared.

Deng Hu found the old Qin charity expense ledger.

The research team had billed the facility.

Company name:

Minghe Medical Instruments.

No longer existed.

Jian frowned.

“Meaning?”

Su was already searching offline corporate records.

“Minghe was acquired.”

“By whom?”

“Two acquisitions.”

She scrolled.

“First by a biomedical holding company.”

“Then?”

Her expression hardened.

“Eventually absorbed into Hanmei.”

There.

Historical continuity.

Not necessarily criminal continuity.

But the data path existed.

Spring Willow calibration could have entered Hanmei legitimately through corporate archives.

Then someone later weaponized it.

“Founders?” Ruoxi asked.

Su looked.

“Three.”

Names.

None currently familiar.

Then she stopped.

“What?”

Lu Chen asked.

“One medical adviser.”

“Name?”

She turned the screen.

Luo Wen.

Silence.

Again.

His name sat at the origin of the data.

But could have been used without consent.

Need records.

“Role?”

“Safety consultant.”

Interesting.

Not research director.

“What did he sign?”

One surviving paper scan.

Su opened it.

Luo Wen’s handwriting.

Calibration may be recorded once for diagnostic comparison.

Then:

No repeated playback to living subjects.

There.

He had anticipated the risk.

Next:

Destroy patient-specific pattern after clinical question resolved.

They had not.

Someone preserved it.

Then:

Do not use Memory Echo patient as an information retrieval instrument.

Exactly.

Patient not tool.

Again.

The principle running through everything.

The last line had been stamped:

DESTRUCTION CONFIRMED

Date:

Twenty-four years ago.

Two weeks after Patient Three disappeared.

Everyone stared.

If destruction had been genuine, P3-ECHO should not exist.

Either:

The destruction record was false.

A copy survived.

Or someone recreated the pattern later.

Who signed destruction?

Ruoxi leaned closer.

Two signatures.

Facility administrator.

And—

Luo Wen.

Jian frowned.

“If his signature is real, he believed it was destroyed.”

“Yes.”

“And eighteen years later it appears in Hanmei under his authorization.”

“Using an authority format that did not exist when he worked there.”

“So false later authorization.”

“Likely.”

There.

Someone had kept the pattern and later reused Luo Wen’s name to legitimize it.

Same pattern as Pei.

Living or dead identity becomes reusable authority.

The old disease of the system.

Lu Chen’s phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

Everyone noticed.

He looked.

No message yet.

Then:

GOOD DOCTOR.

Jian stood.

“Again.”

Second message:

YOU FOUND THE FALSE SICKNESS.

Ruoxi’s face became cold.

Third:

NOW FIND THE REAL ONE.

Silence.

The number sent one image.

An old photograph.

Spring Willow House courtyard.

Children.

Nurses.

Willow tree.

At the far edge—

the unnamed boy.

Perhaps eight.

Thin.

Short hair.

Looking away from the camera.

No face clear enough for identification.

Beside him stood Qin Zhenguo.

Younger.

One hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Then another child—

no.

Not child.

A young adult stood behind them.

Half cut off by the photograph.

Only one arm visible.

On the wrist—

three gray lines.

Witness mark.

Jian leaned closer.

“Luo Jian?”

Impossible.

Twenty-four years ago he may have been a child/teen depending current age not established. Could be perhaps young. But no assumption.

“Luo Wen?”

Could be.

But only arm.

No.

The message continued:

THE BOY DID NOT MAKE THE QIN FAMILY SICK.

They knew that now.

HE WARNED THEM.

Next:

ASK WHAT HE REMEMBERED THREE DAYS BEFORE HE DISAPPEARED.

Then the number died.

Ruoxi looked toward Lu Chen.

“We call Fang.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Fang Meilan answered.

Lu Chen put her on speaker with permission.

“Three days before Patient Three disappeared.”

Silence.

Her breathing changed.

“Who told you?”

“Someone who wants us to ask.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“No.”

“Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

There.

“What happened?”

Fang’s voice became quieter.

“He had the worst episode I ever saw.”

“Symptoms?”

“He woke screaming.”

“Fever?”

“No.”

“Pulse?”

“Forty-two.”

“Conscious?”

“Yes.”

“What did he remember?”

Fang did not answer immediately.

Then:

“A family dinner.”

Ruoxi frowned.

“Qin family?”

“Yes.”

“Had he attended?”

“No.”

“Could he have heard about it?”

“Maybe.”

“Details?”

Fang continued.

“He described Mr. Qin sitting at the head of a long table.”

“Normal enough.”

“He described a girl spilling soup.”

“Which girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“He described someone arguing about a business contract.”

Again ordinary.

Then Fang’s voice changed.

“He described a man standing behind Mr. Qin.”

Silence.

“Who?”

“He didn’t know.”

“What did the man do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then?”

“The boy said no one at the table could see him.”

The room became quiet.

Jian’s hand moved toward his sword out of habit.

Lu Chen ignored it.

“What else?”

Fang continued:

“He said the man touched each person’s shoulder.”

Ruoxi went pale.

“One by one?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He kept saying…”

Fang swallowed.

‘He’s teaching them to remember him.’

Silence.

That was different.

Not Patient Three relaying ordinary memories.

Someone in the remembered scene was deliberately imprinting themselves onto people who could not see them.

Maybe metaphor.

Maybe a foreign memory mechanism.

Maybe Fourth Patient.

Do not conclude.

“What happened next?” Lu Chen asked.

“The boy began counting backward.”

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Grounding.

“But it did not work.”

“What did he say?”

Fang’s voice became barely audible.

“He said the memory wasn’t coming from someone nearby.”

Lu Chen’s eyes sharpened.

“From an archived record?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He said…”

A pause.

‘It remembers me back.’

Silence.

The phrase chilled even Lu Chen.

Fang continued.

“Luo Wen arrived that evening.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Reaction?”

“He went white.”

“What did he do?”

“Told us to prepare to move the boy.”

“And five days later, the boy disappeared.”

“Yes.”

“Did Luo Wen believe the boy was taken?”

Fang hesitated.

“No.”

“What did he believe?”

“That the boy followed the memory.”

Ruoxi looked confused.

“Followed it where?”

Fang answered:

“To the Qin family dinner he had never attended.”

Silence.

Impossible chronologically?

Maybe the dinner was a past memory. The boy could follow location.

“Where was the dinner held?” Lu Chen asked.

Fang said:

“Old Southbank house.”

Everyone froze.

The black medicine chest.

The house containing Pei’s secret.

The place someone entered three months ago.

Patient Three had disappeared after remembering an unseen man moving among the Qin family in that house.

Twenty-four years ago.

And perhaps he had gone there.

Ruoxi stood.

“We search Southbank.”

“No,” Lu Chen said immediately.

She turned.

“Why?”

“Because someone just told us to.”

Silence.

Right.

The false Wake Plate instruction.

The lower east wall.

Every time an unknown actor pointed at a door, the correct first response was not to open it.

“We verify,” Ruoxi said.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Property records.”

“Security?”

“Historical first.”

“Grandfather?”

“Not today.”

“Spring Willow discharge records?”

“Yes.”

“Transport logs?”

“Yes.”

“Police missing-child report?”

“Especially that.”

Deng Hu was already moving.

Good.

Twenty minutes later, ordinary paperwork produced the first answer.

There had been a missing-child report.

Filed by Spring Willow House.

Patient name:

Unknown Male Minor.

Age:

Estimated eight.

Last seen:

9:12 p.m.

Weather:

Light rain.

Clothing:

Gray coat.

Brown shoes.

Likely direction:

Unknown.

Then one handwritten addendum from a patrol officer:

Possible child matching description observed near Southbank tram stop at 10:03 p.m.

There.

Not proof.

But independent.

Then:

Witness reports child repeatedly asked for “the house where people remember strangers.”

Ruoxi’s expression changed.

Southbank.

Again.

Another line:

Child declined police assistance and fled before identification.

An eight-year-old.

Alone.

Why?

Then:

Second possible sighting near Old Southbank Lane, 10:41 p.m.

After that—

nothing.

No recovered child.

No body.

No confirmed departure.

The trail ended near the Qin house.

Su searched the old Qin property records.

Twenty-four years ago.

Who lived there?

No one.

The family had already moved.

The house sat mostly empty under Remembrance Holdings.

Exactly the kind of place a child could enter unnoticed.

And the black medicine chest was already hidden there.

Ruoxi looked toward Lu Chen.

“Patient Three may have found the chest.”

“Maybe.”

“Could he open it?”

“No evidence.”

“Could he sense what was inside?”

“Unknown.”

Jian frowned.

“If his condition let him read preserved memory records—”

“Do not extend beyond evidence.”

“But possible.”

“Yes.”

The boy had become capable of receiving memories from archived meridian imprints.

The chest may contain ordinary paper, not spiritual record.

Maybe irrelevant.

But Southbank house itself had witnessed Qin, Pei, Luo Wen, perhaps Covenant events.

Many strong memory traces.

Could have drawn him.

Then Deng Hu found one final record.

Southbank maintenance ledger.

Twenty-four years ago.

Morning after Patient Three disappeared.

Caretaker report:

Rear kitchen window found open.

Mud prints inside.

Small.

Child-sized.

Ruoxi stopped breathing.

“Anything missing?”

Deng Hu read.

“One bowl.”

“One blanket.”

Then:

“Three sheets of paper from writing desk.”

“What paper?”

“Unknown.”

Anything else?

He continued:

“Medicine cabinet ginger drawer found open.”

Everyone became still.

The hidden black chest was behind that cabinet.

But had the hidden cavity existed then?

Yes.

Pei placed the chest 31y ago.

So yes.

“Compartment disturbed?” Lu Chen asked.

“No record.”

Caretaker likely didn’t know.

“Any sign child left?”

“One set of muddy footprints entered through kitchen.”

“Exited?”

Deng Hu looked up.

“No.”

Silence.

The boy entered Southbank house.

There was no recorded trail out.

That did not mean supernatural disappearance.

He could have left after mud dried.

Used another exit.

Been collected.

Many possibilities.

But something happened there.

Jian’s expression hardened.

“We need to inspect the house again.”

This time Lu Chen did not say no immediately.

Because they now had independent records pointing there.

Not only anonymous instruction.

But still—

“What are we looking for?” he asked.

Jian paused.

Good question.

“Evidence Patient Three was there.”

“Twenty-four years later?”

“Yes.”

“Specific?”

Jian frowned.

Lu Chen looked toward Ruoxi.

“The boy took three sheets of paper.”

Ruoxi’s eyes sharpened.

“From the writing desk.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he wrote something.”

“Possibly.”

“And the ginger drawer was open.”

“Yes.”

The hidden chest behind it.

They had examined the chest cavity in Chapter 26.

Had they inspected the underside of the cabinet?

Floor?

Rear wall?

Not specifically for a child twenty-four years earlier.

Now they had a defined search target.

Good.

“We go tomorrow morning,” Lu Chen said.

Jian looked offended.

“Why not now?”

“Because it is evening.”

“So?”

“Because I have a daughter.”

Silence.

That answer ended it.

As always.

At 7:03 p.m., Lu Chen returned home.

On time.

Xiaoxiao was drawing.

He sat beside her.

“What is that?”

“Family.”

Stick figures.

One tall.

One small.

One with long hair.

Lu Chen did not ask who the third was.

Could be anyone.

Probably Pretty Auntie.

Dangerous territory.

Instead:

“What did you learn today?”

“Numbers.”

“How high?”

“One hundred.”

“Count.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t trust me.”

“I am verifying.”

She sighed.

“One, two, three…”

At seven, Lu Chen’s expression changed slightly.

Patient Three counting backward.

Xiaoxiao noticed.

“Doctor face.”

“Yes.”

“Boy?”

“Yes.”

She stopped counting.

“Did you find him?”

“No.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

She pointed at him.

He corrected:

“Potentially.”

Satisfied.

During dinner she asked:

“Boy remembered people?”

“Yes.”

“People he met?”

“Sometimes.”

“People he didn’t?”

“Later.”

Xiaoxiao frowned.

“That’s messy.”

“Yes.”

“Can you forget?”

“Some things.”

“Can you choose?”

“Sometimes.”

She thought.

Then:

“If memory not yours, still hurts?”

Lu Chen looked at her.

“Yes.”

“Then pain is yours.”

He became still.

Simple.

Again.

The memory might originate elsewhere.

The body experiencing it now still suffered.

Exactly why Patient Three’s recipients deserved treatment even if the memory was foreign.

“Yes,” Lu Chen said quietly.

“Pain is theirs.”

Xiaoxiao ate another spoonful of rice.

Conversation over.

Lesson delivered accidentally.

At 9:18 p.m., Ruoxi sent Lu Chen the old Southbank floor plan.

He opened it.

Kitchen.

Study.

Old medicine room.

Cabinet.

Hidden cavity.

Then he noticed something.

The medicine cabinet sat against the wall shared with a narrow servants’ passage.

The hidden chest cavity opened from the medicine-room side.

But the rear wall of the cavity—

shared another space.

A tiny sealed maintenance recess.

Not marked as room.

Just:

SERVICE ACCESS

Deng Hu had not opened it.

Because it was not part of the hidden chest compartment.

No one had reason to.

Now they did.

A child could perhaps crawl through from the kitchen passage.

Maybe.

Lu Chen enlarged the plan.

There was a small access panel.

Behind the cabinet wall.

Ruoxi called immediately.

“You saw it.”

“Yes.”

“Service recess.”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight.”

“No.”

She sighed.

“I knew.”

“Good.”

Then:

“Any symptoms?”

“No.”

“Left hand?”

“Normal.”

“Dream?”

“Not yet.”

“Sleep.”

“You too.”

The call ended.

At 11:06 p.m., Spring Willow’s retired nurse sent one final message through Deng Hu.

She had remembered another line from Luo Wen’s notebook but refused to photograph the page.

Deng Hu transcribed it while she watched.

Lu Chen read:

Patient Three does not appear to spread memory indefinitely.

Good.

Then:

Every echo requires an anchor.

His eyes narrowed.

Next:

Person. Place. Object. Record.

Four possible anchors.

Then:

Remove the anchor and most echoes fade.

That explained why staff recovered after the boy disappeared.

Then the last sentence:

If an echo returns decades later, do not blame the child. Find who restored the anchor.

Silence.

Lu Chen looked toward the P3-ECHO equipment file.

Someone had restored an anchor.

A preserved calibration profile.

Used against Qin relatives.

Artificially.

The “family illness” had been manufactured.

At least this component.

But Patient Three himself remained missing.

And twenty-four years ago—

his final trail ended at Southbank house.

Perhaps because something there had become his anchor.

Perhaps because he found a record.

Or perhaps because someone was waiting for him.

Lu Chen put the phone down.

Tomorrow they would search the service recess.

Not because an anonymous stranger told them to.

Because ordinary records, medical observations, police reports, and physical architecture all pointed to the same place.

Evidence first.

Then the door.