The Static Hour #2

The sun still rose in the east, slanting its light across the quiet town.

At 07:19 exactly, the bakery's wooden door opened on schedule, and the air immediately filled with the scent of fresh bread.

Next door, steam slowly poured from the bamboo steamer in the breakfast shop, the mist swirling and billowing in the morning light. Through the blurred vapor, a few faint numbers materialized on the copper lining of the stove—

"42".

Yongkang stopped, a slight frown creasing his brow.

42?

He squinted, trying to get a clearer look.

But the next second, the mist subtly dispersed, leaving only a piece of tarnished, rusty copper plate on the stove wall, as if the numbers had never been there.

He stared at the copper for a moment before forcing himself to look away.

An illusion? Or...?

Back at the pharmacy, he sat behind the counter, his gaze fixed on the open notebook filled with records of the last few days' anomalies:

1748 / 19:19 / 07:19

Number of Mr. Chen's appearances: 174 times

Metal ring serial: 1991.2.17

He pressed his lips together, then slowly reached into his pocket, his fingertips touching the cold metal surface.

—The ring he had picked up in the alley this morning.

A crack traced the edge of the metal, spreading like an unhealed wound, and it looked even deeper than it had hours earlier.

"I need seven pieces of danggui."

The voice of the old woman broke his concentration.

Yongkang snapped his head up, finding the old woman with the small dog standing before the counter, her expression perfectly normal.

He nodded, habitually grabbing a handful of danggui and placing it on the scale, but an unshakeable sense of dread filled him.

Outside the counter, the goldsmith’s digital clock hung silently on the wall, the hands fixed at 19:18.

In one minute, Mr. Chen would appear.

For the past 174 days, every day at 19:19, Mr. Chen had stood precisely by the fire hydrant, his vacant gaze fixed on the pharmacy.

But today—

19:19. The clock gave its distinct "tick."

Mr. Chen did not appear.

Yongkang's heart plummeted.

He pushed open the wooden gate of the counter and walked to the storefront, searching for any sign of Mr. Chen.

But the street was the same as always, without a ripple of change.

The boy ran out of the general store, holding soy sauce, passing the red brick wall.

The goldsmith's was still open; the woman with reading glasses was still reviewing the price list.

The dog relieved itself under the same telephone pole.

The old woman and the cloth shop owner were repeating the same casual greetings.

Everything was running exactly as it had yesterday.

The only difference: Mr. Chen was gone.

His gaze fell on the red brick wall opposite, where the mottled number 1748 used to be.

But today—

Next to 1748, a new number had inexplicably appeared.

"42".

Yongkang's heart clenched fiercely.

42... Why did this number keep appearing today?

"Did you count the danggui?"

His mother's voice suddenly came from inside the pharmacy, sharper than usual.

"It must be 49 pieces."

Yongkang's nerves tightened. He hurried back to the counter and started counting the danggui.

40, 41, 42...

He stopped.

He remembered clearly that for the past 174 days, every time he counted the danggui, seven pieces were missing; the count was always 42.

And today?

43, 44, 45, 46...

47, 48, 49.

49 pieces?

Yongkang's fingers trembled. He stared at the medicinal tray in disbelief.

—How was this possible?

The world was not supposed to work like this.

A chill ran up his spine.

"You have something in your pocket that doesn't belong to you."

A low, husky voice spoke, thick with the smell of damp earth.

Yongkang jerked his head up. Standing at the counter was a ragged, elderly man.

His hair was disheveled, his eyes deep-set, his face furrowed by time's relentless carving. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, revealing yellowed teeth. The entire figure looked like a specter forgotten by time.

Yongkang's heart seized.

—He was certain he hadn't seen this man enter the shop.

"Give it to me."

The old man gave a slight, chilling grin, his withered finger pointing directly at Yongkang's pocket.

The world descended into a strange silence.

Yongkang’s breathing hitched. His right hand instinctively plunged into his pocket, his fingertips touching the metal ring.

Its temperature was even lower than before, like it had just been pulled from an ice chamber.

The digital clock suddenly began to flash wildly—

19:22 -> 42 -> 1748 -> 07:19 -> 0

All the lights in the small town abruptly went out.

Electronic screens momentarily flickered: television sets, store LED displays, digital panels on appliances... without exception, all were overwritten by the number "42".

Yongkang's eyes widened, his pupils reflecting the flashing 42s everywhere.

The old man smiled. "...You've been noticed."

The next second—

Yongkang opened his eyes. He was still sitting behind the pharmacy counter, and the old man was gone.

His fingers rested on the medicinal tray, where a pile of danggui lay before him.

He froze for a second, then looked down and counted.

40, 41, 42...

He stopped.

He held his breath, staring at the empty part of the tray.

—Seven pieces were missing.

A familiar chill shot up his spine. He raised his head abruptly, his gaze crossing the counter to the street opposite.

The goldsmith's digital clock clearly displayed 19:19.

Mr. Chen stood by the rusted fire hydrant, his grave gaze fixed on the pharmacy.

—He was back.

Yongkang instinctively checked his pocket.

The metal ring was gone.

He sharply looked up at Mr. Chen's wrist—

The metal band on his wrist was completely intact.

But Yongkang remembered clearly that the metal ring he had held this morning... was cracked.

The world had returned to normal.

The digital clock still ticked. His mother walked out of the pharmacy to exchange words with the old woman. The sun slanted across the eaves. Everything was the same as yesterday, the day before, and the 174 days before that.

—Or was it truly the same?

Yongkang lowered his head to the medicinal tray.

The danggui was still short by seven pieces.