His memory suddenly flashed back to a few years ago, the images partially overlapping.

For Edith Parker, every little detail about Henry Clark was especially vivid. The way he opened a can with one hand replayed in slow motion before his eyes, along with the proud look on his face as he smiled and said, “My left hand is really nimble.”

But at this moment, the memory shifted.

Henry Clark took the can, habitually trying to open it with his left hand, but paused for a moment.

Like a program that corrects itself after an error, he froze for a second, then switched to using both hands—his left hand half-gripping the can, his right thumb pulling up the tab.

He took a sip and bumped David Morgan's shoulder. “Tell me, do you think my place is haunted? I swear I just bought ten cans of beer a few days ago, and I only drank three myself. But this morning, when I opened the fridge, there wasn’t a single one left. I checked the kitchen trash can—guess what? It was full of empty cans!”

He shook the can in his hand and added, “It’s either a ghost or a thief.”

David Morgan scoffed. “Who’d steal from your bare-bones place? You really think you’re still some rich young master?”

“What if they’re after my good looks?”

“Get lost.”

The two of them kept bantering not far away, but Edith Parker kept staring at Henry Clark's hand.

“Hi.”

A skinny boy patted Edith Parker on the shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He asked a bit nervously, “I’m not very good at this. Can you teach me?”

Edith Parker turned around and handed him the protective gear. “Of course.”

It wasn’t actually that late after work, but the sky was already pitch black, and Henry Clark had long since disappeared.

Dark clouds pressed down, covering the skyline. While changing clothes, Edith Parker overheard his coworkers talking about the weather, saying it was about to pour.

No sooner had they finished speaking than lightning flashed outside the window.

In that blinding white instant, Edith Parker was back in his high school days, memories of Henry Clark flickering by, followed by his recent image. It was as if that opened can wasn’t just a can, but a memory box that only Edith Parker was preserving.

He always stubbornly believed that everything should stay the same as always, and if it didn’t, something must be wrong.

But maybe, it was really just a different way of opening it—maybe it simply changed, nothing special.

Edith Parker took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, changed clothes, and put on a baseball cap.

William Harris sent a message.

[Meh: Xiao Yi, I just left school, heading to the rehearsal room now.]

[Meh: Be careful on the road! It’s raining outside.]

With his instrument case on his back, Edith Parker ended up changing his plans after all, even though he hated doing that the most.

Thunder rumbled.

The rain kept pouring harder.

There wasn’t much to do at the party house. Henry Clark still wanted to drink, and David Morgan didn’t stop him, tagging along to the bar. On the way home, he wrapped himself in a blanket, curled up in the back seat, and took a nap. He didn’t feel drunk, but the car’s motion made him dizzy.

In the short twenty-three-minute drive, he, who almost never dreamed, had four dreams in a row, all fragmented and disjointed. The only good thing was, none of them were about the band—they were all high school memories.

That was pretty scary, too. Only twenty-two, and he was already nostalgic for his youth.

Tossing and turning, Henry Clark sat up, belatedly shivering.

“Yo, you’re awake?”

David Morgan glanced at the rearview mirror, catching sight of the tattoo on his neck. “Don’t tell me you dreamed about that white moonlight again?”

“White your ass.” Henry Clark sneered.

“Look at you. Who was the one acting like he was under a spell back then? And now you don’t like them anymore?”

After all these years, Henry Clark had long since figured it out.

Rather than saying he fell in love with a pair of eyes back then, it was more accurate to say he loved the version of himself reflected in those eyes.

That was the most perfect projection of himself.

But now it was different. Henry Clark knew very well that even he didn’t love himself anymore.

And no one would ever look at a soul that had already burned out with that kind of gaze again.

Maybe that person despised him like everyone else. Affection was always cheap, and when the passion faded, maybe it turned to hate. Henry Clark always made the darkest assumptions about this mysterious fan. He couldn’t even say why—maybe he was just afraid of disappointment.

David Morgan stared at his face, wanting to say he’d changed too much over the years, but changed his mind at the last second.

“Can you stop acting like a stray dog? Where’s your lion’s heart?”

“Lionheart” was a song Henry Clark wrote at sixteen, later included in Unordered Corner’s debut album of the same name.

Henry Clark was sick of him bringing up the past, flipped him off and gave a fierce “woof.”

When he got out of the car, he didn’t take the umbrella from David Morgan, just stumbled through the rain for a bit, wandering to the entrance of his building.

Climbing to the fifth floor, he finally seemed to shake off the heavy dream, groggily fished out his keys, but couldn’t get them to fit in the lock. The hallway was pitch dark, and in frustration he kicked the door—bang.

The motion-sensor light came on.

Ah, turns out he had the wrong door.

Henry Clark turned away in annoyance, walked to the opposite side, and nearly tripped over something on the floor. Looking closer, it wasn’t just something—it was a lump of darkness, with a tall instrument case standing next to it.