Chapter Three: The Shared Dream

empty table. Above the street hung an inverted Linchuan, its foundations descending like roots into cloud. "Seven," twelve voices counted. This memory belonged to no single person. Every marked victim had been dragged into the same dream. At the street's end stood a warehouse from Pier Seven. Faded letters named it the WHITE CROW COGNITIVE REHABILITATION CENTER. The date beneath was seven years old. "Six." Inside, shelves held glass jars labeled with names. Luminous mist filled each one. As Shen Yao passed, voices emerged: "This is my daughter." "This is my first lie." "This is the afternoon I was afraid and did not run." They were stolen pieces of belonging. The last jar was empty. Its label read SHEN YAO—RECOVERY: 67%. "Five."