"Would you let me possess all of your gentleness?"
A gentle breeze whispered, bringing with it the moist scent from the banks of the Tamsui River. Sunlight slanted onto the water's surface, scattering tiny ripples of golden brilliance. Crowds wove leisurely through stone-paved streets, mingling with vendors' calls and travelers' carefree laughter—everything felt vividly real yet strangely surreal.
"Yu Yong-An, are you even listening?" Yang An-Ting's voice pulled him abruptly from his reverie.
She waved her phone, eyes squinting playfully. "Spacing out? You promised we'd explore together. Or is your heart still stuck in the office?"
"No," Yu Yong-An shook his head, voice steady despite his fingers tightening unconsciously.
That question—"Would you let me possess all of your gentleness?"—wasn't from Yang An-Ting.
It emerged from a distant yet intimately familiar moment, a fragment lodged in the edges of memory, suddenly thrust into reality. He remembered its existence but couldn't pinpoint when or where it had originated, or even if it had truly happened.
Like a shard of shattered memory caught between the cracks of thought, he reached out to touch it, only to find it incongruous with reality.
--- "The Yellowed Photograph"
"Should we visit Mackay Clinic?" Yang An-Ting suggested cheerfully.
"Sure," Yu Yong-An murmured, stepping forward. But the instant his foot crossed the clinic's threshold, an uncanny sensation gripped him.
He had been here before.
No—only in dreams.
He closed his eyes, temples throbbing gently. An image flashed vividly in his mind: the same wooden doorframe, faded brick walls, the mingling aromas of aged paper and old medicinal herbs, the faint sunlight tracing paths through drifting dust.
This wasn't the first time… He had seen this scene. In the dream, he'd stood exactly here, feeling tiles beneath his feet creak softly, fingertips brushing against weathered pages infused with a subtle dampness.
In that dream, he was leafing through a book, and tucked within its pages was—
"What's this?" Yang An-Ting's curious voice shattered the silence as she pointed to a faded photograph in a display case.
Yu Yong-An's gaze fell upon the image, pupils shrinking slightly.
The person in the photo didn't belong to this era.
Though the scene matched the clinic's present architecture, the slender figure in the black single-breasted coat, holding what appeared to be a smartphone, bore a chilling gaze, standing casually yet distinctly out of place among the crowd. His attire, demeanor—everything radiated an unsettling discordance with contemporary surroundings.
Even more puzzling was the clock on the wall behind him, bearing four hands and frozen inexplicably at 28:01, an impossible moment.
"This…" Yang An-Ting began but was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice.
"Intrigued by this photo, are you?" A clinic attendant in his fifties spoke, his tone ambiguously probing. His gaze lingered on Yu Yong-An a moment longer than ordinary, as if confirming something.
"When was this taken?" Yu Yong-An asked, eyes still locked on that bizarre detail.
"It's always been here," the attendant replied evenly. "Since the clinic first opened. But no one knows its true origin."
"No one knows?"
"Many say it's...odd," the attendant shrugged, emotionless. "But we've grown accustomed to it. Occasionally, though, someone reacts strangely…just as you are now."
Yu Yong-An's breathing stilled. Again, he stared at the photo, sensing something deep within him cracking open—
"The Cross"
Beside the display case, a glint of cold metal caught his attention.
A cross. Yu Yong-An's heart clenched suddenly.
In an instant, a memory foreign to reality invaded his mind—he saw himself standing there, but from a different perspective.
He watched himself reach out, fingertips gliding over the cross.
He observed his own brow furrow slightly, inspecting carefully.
He saw himself pause, expression changing abruptly, before—
Swiftly gripping the cross, slipping it discreetly into his pocket, eyes darting around with vigilance.
Returning sharply to the present, Yu Yong-An drew a sharp breath. His fingers instinctively reached for the cross, its cool metallic edge startlingly familiar beneath his fingertips. He had done this before. This wasn't the first time.
But how could this be? Why was this moment, this exact detail, so vividly etched in his mind when he knew it couldn't possibly have occurred? He glanced around. Yang An-Ting was still chatting with the attendant, unaware of his turmoil.
His instincts told him—no one else should know about this.
Regaining composure, he calmly grasped the cross, slipping it naturally into his pocket as if nothing unusual had transpired. His training had taught him how to conceal emotions, analyze anomalies, and patiently gather evidence before confirming any suspicions.
This wasn't merely an old relic—it was a clue, pointing toward something greater. About time, memory, and evidence that this world wasn't singular after all.
[Interlude – Echo Between Layers]
Somewhere, perhaps in a different time, a girl sat before a mirror that didn't reflect her face.
Her fingertips hovered just above the glass, as if afraid to touch. Behind her, an open window let in the same breeze from the river—soft, almost sentient.
"Did you take it again?" she asked no one in particular, her voice calm yet laced with ache.
The mirror shimmered faintly.
"I keep forgetting who I am when you hide me like that."
Her reflection shifted—no longer her, but someone gentler, more resolute, a version of herself both older and younger.
"It was you, wasn't it?" she whispered. "The one who chose to forget. The one who carried it away."
The mirror didn't answer. It only trembled slightly, as if struggling to contain something unspeakable.
From outside came the sound of faint footsteps, fading into the distance.