Once We Lived in Nanjing

At the end of this March, just before the completion of this work, I was invited by Nanjing Normal University to attend an event in Nanjing, where I met Zhao Bowen for the last time during a break.

Zhao was always busy, rushing about, still wearing his trademark tortoiseshell glasses and dark trench coat, but this time he had a blue surgical mask due to the rainy and chilly weather of the returning spring; he buttoned up high and carried a black umbrella, sitting down in front of me.

"Oh dear, it's never quiet, this damned pandemic comes in waves," Zhao Bowen muttered, "When will it ever end?"

"How has Nanjing been recently?" I asked.

"It's been okay, not as serious as in Shanghai," Zhao Bowen said as he sat down, took off his mask, and casually filled up a cup of tea for himself since we were old acquaintances.

We met at a restaurant by the Xinjiekou street, sitting near the entrance. By six in the evening, a light drizzle started, and soon brightly colored umbrellas were opened on the streets.

After some small talk about the recent situations of people like Bai Zhen and Wang Ning, Zhao Bowen noted that these old chaps are all living quite comfortably, unaffected. Bai is still busily renovating his old house in Lulou Town, regularly overseeing the work, while Wang Ning was recently roped in as a pandemic volunteer, so busy that his legs cramped, cursing all day. His supervisors had suggested promoting him, but he declined—through this ordeal, Wang had a clear understanding of his capabilities, knowing he wasn't cut out to be a department head, so he recommended Xiao Zhu instead.

As for Zhao Bowen himself, he remained tight-lipped about his recent work. When I asked whether there was a follow-up, he only gave a mysterious smile, deep in meaning.

"Here, this manuscript, take a look," I pulled out a thick stack of printed draft papers from my backpack and threw it onto the table, "Feel free to give any comments or opinions."

Zhao Bowen flipped through it briefly, then shook his head: "You don't need to show me this; I've been following your serial. You publish a chapter, I read a chapter, and I even commented in your comments section."

"Which one is you?"

"It's a secret," Zhao said.

"Then do you have any suggestions?" I asked.

"No suggestions, I don't really understand literary creation. My opinions would be like an amateur directing an expert," Zhao chuckled, slapping the manuscript onto the table. "I admire how you write with such detail and accuracy, but what if it misdirects readers to Crescent Lake to dig up the time capsule, while it's not actually there?"

"Crescent Lake is so big, they won't find it."

"Are you going to publish using this draft?" Zhao pointed at the papers on the table, "Any major changes planned?"

"Yeah, will use this, no changes."

"So... you finally decided to name her Ban Xia?"

"Yes, she needs a name, doesn't she? Or do you not like this name?"

"No no no, I'm very satisfied. It's great. In the headquarters, we just used code names, Yangyang and others called her 'Miss'. Others have named her too, but none as pleasant as yours," Zhao Bowen said, "She should have a nice name."

"In a world where only two or even one person remains, what significance does a name hold?" I said.

"A name is the anchor in people's memories, it's the trace of your existence in this world," Zhao Bowen said, "A person without a name is like the wind; at the slightest blow, it disappears."

"Time really flies; almost two years have gone by," I mentioned. "According to her age, that girl should have been born by now."

Zhao Bowen thought for a moment and nodded:

"Yes, she would be 19 in 2040, born in 2021, possibly just a year old now."

"Zhao teacher."

"Yes?"

"Is she still alive?"

"I believe she is still alive, truly. Information changes the future as it transfers. Tian Rui teacher, this is also why we asked you to write this book. Now our future has returned to the black box; she will have a different future, or rather, we can create a different future for her." Zhao Bowen said, "This has always been our hope, what we've been striving for."

"Another 2040?"

"In this world, everything, including our entire material world, can essentially be seen as information. Information isn't just a nebulous concept; it has the capacity to affect the world around it. Physics has a concept called work—thus, information has the ability to work externally," Zhao Bowen explained. "We shouldn't separate the transmission of information from physical changes. From our perspective, the future is determined by what we observe; when we lose the only observer, then the future reverts to chaos."

"Was this your original purpose?" I asked.

"What?"

"Losing the observer," I said.

Zhao Bowen thought for a moment and shook his head:

"Not exactly, we just want to know the driving force behind the apocalypse."

"The origin of the Black Moon?"

"Yes, the Black Moon and the Swordman have once again become two dark clouds looming over the head of modern physics, just like Lord Kelvin said in his speech in 1900, the edifice of physics has been constructed; all that's left is some patching up. Yet, two clouds hung above our heads, but as everyone knows what happened afterwards." Zhao Bowen said, "We are about to usher in an era of great changes, and as a physicist, I am luckier than my predecessors."

"Obviously, the Black Moon and the Swordman transcend the framework of modern physics. We previously believed that the transmission of information could not exceed the speed of light, but the characteristics of the Swordman are instantaneous and even superluminal, it's as if inside the light cone, it can detect targets outside of the light cone... Alas, every time we think we have grasped all the truths of the universe, some weird things break in to tell us, what you know is just a drop in the ocean."

Zhao Bowen sighed.

"The center of the Milky Way Galaxy is 26,000 light-years away from Earth, we are seeing celestial bodies from 26,000 years ago, doesn't this mean they sensed us over twenty thousand years ago?"

"You might think of it this way, they foresee the future." Zhao Bowen nodded, "Time, for us and for the Black Moon, obviously holds different meanings. In our view, time is the underlying code of the universe; unreadable, unmanageable, and invisible, intangible. But in the eyes of Black Moon, time may just be a progress bar... It's just that they are coders of a higher dimension with a deeper understanding of the operating system."

"Human beings are very weak."

"Human beings are also very strong." Old Zhao said, "Even with something as fearsome as time, we have ways to overcome it."

"What ways?" I asked.

"Burying a time capsule," Old Zhao answered.

Hearing this answer, I laughed out loud.

"Don't laugh, I'm serious." Old Zhao said, "We can bury a time capsule, wait for a full twenty years, then precisely deliver it to someone's hands; although it's a small boat, it will eventually reach its destination after crossing the ocean, no storm can capsize it. This is how humans resist time, no matter how prolonged the time, some things remain indelible, be it time, cities, history, or everything... everything changes."

"But love is eternal."

···

The rain outside the window slightly intensified, we sat digesting our food, right after mealtime, with an endless stream of people outside, men and women, young and old alike carrying umbrellas, the sound of car horns echoing incessantly.

For a long time, we didn't speak, quietly turning our heads to look outside the window, surrounded by noisy voices.

Zhao Bowen looked down at his phone, "Teacher Tianrui, it's getting late, we should also..."

He suddenly paused.

I also paused.

We looked at each other and suddenly stood up from our seats, turned and rushed out, startling the other diners.

Was it an illusion?

Was it a hallucination?

Or purely a coincidence?

When the two of us squeezed out of the restaurant and rushed into the rain, that faint gentle voice, as if a mother comforting her child, still echoed:

"Little Ban Xia... grow up fast..."

"Where are they? Where is everyone?" Zhao Bowen yelled in the rain, soaked to the bone, spinning around, "Where are they?"

I stood dumbfounded under the streetlight, turned my head and saw thousands of raindrops falling from the sky, pitter-pattering, the road covered with colorful flowers.

March 30, 2022.

Nanjing remains the same Nanjing.

But this time, I hope,

we live in the same Nanjing.

(The End)