(1)
A trace of chilly wind brushed across Zhu Ying’s face, making her feel as though her heart, which had just been beating normally, suddenly gave a tremor.
She instinctively pulled back her outstretched foot and closed that door which seemed like it led to another world.
In the classroom behind her, An Jing lay quietly on the desk, sound asleep.
She took a deep breath and pushed open this door that looked just like the classroom door again.
After pushing it open, it was still An Jing leaning quietly against the doorframe, yawning as she asked, “Had another nightmare again?”
“Bang!!” Zhu Ying slammed the door shut, gasping for breath, and turned to look at An Jing, who lay slumped over the desk.
The classroom was utterly silent.
The tightly closed windows ensured that not even the slightest sound of wind or rain could be heard inside.
The classroom was utterly silent.
An Jing, sleeping on the desk, seemed like she could sleep on and on like this, never waking up.
Zhu Ying clutched her pounding chest, her heart feeling as if it were spasming—a faint pain that made it impossible for her to breathe steadily.
It was like a broken bellows—sometimes, she could manage half a breath, sometimes, not even that.
Her hand slowly loosened from the doorknob, but suddenly gripped it again, and then she flung the door open once more.
An Jing, still leaning against the wall, groggily rubbed her eyes and slowly lifted her head. “Another nightmare again?”
Outside, the wind slammed hard against the glass, and raindrops hammered the eaves like bullets—the room was anything but quiet.
So, the one who raised her head naturally wasn’t An Jing.
—She had the exact same face as Zhu Ying.
Zhu Ying felt her hands turning cold, stiffly and with great effort closing the door once again.
She stepped back twice, and in an instant, the classroom door seemed impossibly far away.
She turned her head, and An Jing was lying on the desk right beside her.
She shook Yi’s body forcefully, her voice unable to stay calm: “Xiao Jing!! Xiao Jing! Wake up!”
This time, even if Yi didn’t react at all, she would make sure to wake her.
So, An Jing was hauled up, her body swaying as she leaned against the back of the chair.
Zhu Ying stared wide-eyed, unconsciously taking half a step back.
That wasn’t An Jing’s face—it was still her own.
The one sleeping on the desk wasn’t An Jing, but herself.
In terror, she looked out the window—the black world outside had swallowed the wind and rain, and on every pane of glass was reflected her own frightened face.
She could no longer stay in this classroom.
She had to run.
She yanked the classroom door open, ignoring anyone’s shouts, and rushed out.
She ignored the An Jing leaning against the doorframe, who had her own face but An Jing’s voice, and forcefully opened the bedroom door, dashing barefoot into the room.
She had probably never run this fast in her life.
And right now, the warmest and safest place was the bed—as long as she could get back there, all things fearful and unsettling would vanish in an instant.
But when she opened the bedroom door, it was not a bedroom inside.
Instead, it was a spacious-looking dance studio.
Zhu Ying was already fleeing in a panic.
As long as there was a door, she’d run for it, open it, and rush through.
Door after door was flung open, one room after another—each seemingly unrelated—left behind.
Yet she never managed to find her bedroom; in fact, it felt like she was running farther and farther away.
Gradually, more and more doors appeared in the rooms before her.
Each time she opened one, all the other doors would vanish.
She didn’t hesitate at all—always dashing for the closest one, pushing it open, and entering the next room, until—
She shook Yi’s body forcefully, her voice unable to stay calm: “Xiao Jing!! Xiao Jing! Wake up!”
This time, even if Yi didn’t react at all, she would make sure to wake her.
So, An Jing was hauled up, her body swaying as she leaned against the back of the chair.
Zhu Ying stared wide-eyed, unconsciously taking half a step back.
That wasn’t An Jing’s face—it was still her own.
The one sleeping on the desk wasn’t An Jing, but herself.
In terror, she looked out the window—the black world outside had swallowed the wind and rain, and on every pane of glass was reflected her own frightened face.
She could no longer stay in this classroom.
She had to run.
She yanked the classroom door open, ignoring anyone’s shouts, and rushed out.
She ignored the An Jing leaning against the doorframe, who had her own face but An Jing’s voice, and forcefully opened the bedroom door, dashing barefoot into the room.
She had probably never run this fast in her life.
And right now, the warmest and safest place was the bed—as long as she could get back there, all things fearful and unsettling would vanish in an instant.
But when she opened the bedroom door, it was not a bedroom inside.
Instead, it was a spacious-looking dance studio.
Zhu Ying was already fleeing in a panic.
As long as there was a door, she’d run for it, open it, and rush through.
Door after door was flung open, one room after another—each seemingly unrelated—left behind.
Yet she never managed to find her bedroom; in fact, it felt like she was running farther and farther away.
Gradually, more and more doors appeared in the rooms before her.
Each time she opened one, all the other doors would vanish.
She didn’t hesitate at all—always dashing for the closest one, pushing it open, and entering the next room, until—
She entered a room with almost no walls, only doors on all sides.
Every door looked exactly the same, every door seemed perfectly ordinary.
They were tightly shut, like pairs of eyes, silently watching Zhu Ying.
If she pushed open one more door, an even bigger room would appear—and… even more doors.
This—
This was the maze of doors.
This was a nightmare.
A dream that, even knowing it was a dream, she could not wake from.
She didn’t know how she had ever left this place before; the endless terror was slowly crushing her.
At last, she stopped, standing still and gasping for air—the more she exhaled, the less she could inhale.
In a burst of noise, those tightly closed doors opened, and many figures walked out.
They all looked exactly like Zhu Ying, weaving back and forth through the countless doors.
There was no communication among any of them; they looked like nothing but soulless shells, cold and lifeless.
And Zhu Ying herself gradually grew numb, her wide eyes slowly becoming blank…
***
(2)
The tenth year inside the dream.
Life in the real world seemed ever more distant—so distant she could barely remember the sunset shining into that noisy classroom on a normal evening.
No matter where she went in this world, she never saw anyone except An Jing and herself.
The world of dreams seemed to have become reality.
Zhu Ying hardly ever thought about waking up anymore.
In the ruins of a city, a tall yet curvaceous young woman was shuffling through a pile of junk on the ground.
She found a dirty box and, with effort, tore open the yellowed tape that had almost fused with the cardboard.
“Xiao Ying!”
She turned around excitedly, shaking the small box, “I found new batteries!”
“Hm?”
Zhu Ying lifted her small face, looking up at An Jing, who was now much taller than herself. Her gaze shifted from An Jing’s prominent chest up to her chin.
“I told you to look for food, so why’d you find batteries?”
“If we have batteries, we can listen to tapes again!”
“But those tape players aren’t necessarily working, you know.”
“That’s why we have to try them out! Keep the working ones—first, the tape players broke, then we couldn’t find new batteries, and even when we finally found those tape players that looked usable, we couldn’t test if they worked or not.”
An Jing looked completely relaxed.
“Now it’s fine. We can finally listen to music again.”
“So, did you find any food?”
“Cough! Not yet!”
“Hurry up! The sun’s almost down.”
Zhu Ying frowned.
“There’s less and less food in these ruins.”
“Are you saying I eat too much, and I finished it all?”
“Cough! I didn’t mean that at all!”
“Hmph, even if we did compare, it’s definitely you who eats more!”
“I just turn it all into flesh, okay.”
An Jing helplessly patted her chest, “Ugh, it’s so annoying and heavy, always gets in the way when I’m working.”
Zhu Ying rolled her eyes and slapped An Jing’s back.
“Stop showing off! Go look! If we can’t find anything, we’ll have to eat lollipops again today. There’s still a whole bucket of them left from last time—they’ll last a long time.”
“No! We’ve had lollipops for two days straight! I want real food!”
“Where would you find real food in these ruins? Unless you can dig up a can somewhere.”
An Jing pursed her lips but still bent down, tossing aside broken concrete blocks and continuing to search.
As the setting sun stretched their shadows long, An Jing once again cheered, pulling out half a box of instant noodles—crushed flat—from the rubble.
“All crushed. What a shame.”
“As long as there’s food, it’s fine. So, how about noodle soup tonight?”
“Mm.”
Zhu Ying tilted her head and glanced around, her gaze settling on a battered white plastic table.
Even after all these years, it only looked a bit old—one of its legs was missing a corner, but as long as you propped it up, it didn’t wobble much.
It used to be an outdoor table set in front of a mall, and even now, it was still serving its purpose.
“How about over there?”
“The flowerbed beside it is perfect for making a fire.”
“Cook it, then eat at the table.”
“Why not just squat by the fire and eat?”
“Once in a while, let’s be a bit formal! Or we’ll turn into wild people.”
“…I have no problem with that.”
An Jing shrugged, her well-endowed chest shaking with the motion.
The last rays of sunset faded from the sky. In the pot hanging over the campfire, the fragrant noodle soup was bubbling away.
“Phew… It’s ready—though it’s still hot.”
An Jing ladled a bowl of noodle soup, handing it to Zhu Ying, and craned her neck, trying to peek at what Zhu Ying was writing in her notebook, only to be blocked by Zhu Ying’s hand.
“What are you doing? No peeking!”
“Tch, there’s only the two of us. What are you writing that’s so secret?”
“It’s a record, okay? Without it, we wouldn’t even know what’s happened, or how many years have passed.”
Zhu Ying wrote seriously, watching out for An Jing’s sneaky glances.
“So, how many years has it been now?”
“Ten years, it’s the tenth year now.”
Zhu Ying recorded the date while remaining alert.
“Can’t believe it’s been that long already.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve gotten used to this kind of life.”
“Used to living in a dream?”
“Used to living with Xiao Jing, of course.”
“What if someday I’m not here anymore?”
“Hey! Don’t say scary things like that!”
Zhu Ying glared fiercely at her.
“There’s no way something like that will happen.”
“If that time really comes, you have to find the path you want to walk.”
“Find it? How… and how do I know which path that is?”
“The road is yours to choose—no matter which one you pick, just walk to the end, and you’ll wake up.”
***
(3)
Zhu Ying gently pushed open a door, passing through one room after another.
The number of doors in each room gradually diminished.
Until she came to a long corridor, with only a single door at the far end.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.
They sounded as if they came from a distant past, or perhaps an unknown future—but not from the present, and certainly not from her own feet.
The distance between her and the door seemed to always stay the same—as if, even if she kept walking forward like this, she would never reach the door.
But she didn’t care; she simply kept moving forward on her own—no matter how the door receded, she never stopped.
It could have been centuries later, or just the next second after taking a step.
The door stood before her.
Zhu Ying lightly grasped the handle and slowly pushed it open.
“You will forget who you are now… Even so, do you still want to open this door?”
“I will wake up, but I will forget.”
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