You hold the form in your hand like an eraser of history,
Coming here to correct past mistakes,
Only to regret crossing this threshold and return
To change today's decisions, again and again.
One might attempt to swim upstream in the river of time-
Not impossible, but not advised.
-Excerpt from the Preface to the Charter of the Yesterday Bureau
1
Wang Qinzhi gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, eyes fixed on the cityscape rushing past his window as if he could scoop up shards of sanity from the air-one word echoed in his mind: regret.
"Pure Love Paradox 3-it's an absolute travesty," he muttered, shaking his head so vigorously it seemed poised to fall off. "All because of this movie my brain cells are staging a mass suicide."
Recalling yesterday's argument with Yan Lili, the crease between his brows twisted into more convoluted shapes than the film's tangled romances. He had once believed she was his soulmate; now she seemed more like an auto-rating bot on some movie review site.
"A three-point-two out of ten for this trash? Clearly the standards of these net-surfing cinephiles still have room to sink," he grumbled under his breath.
Until yesterday, Yan Lili had been Wang Qinzhi's girlfriend. She wore a crisp white blouse and a deep-blue skirt, her slender figure composed and unassuming-enough to make any passerby's heart skip a beat. He took pride in her beauty yet lived in fear that someone else's lingering glance might steal her uniqueness. He admired her clear eyes but often missed the faint, stubborn lift at the corner of her lips.
What troubled him was the chasm in their tastes. Yan reveled in dreamy, exquisite, almost ethereal cinematography, caring nothing for narrative logic or character motivation. In the Pure Love Paradox series, she parsed every absurd stunt as some profound allegory-as if arthouse films must be wrapped in pretension. She even delighted in quoting lines that sounded deep but were, in truth, utter nonsense-as though they held the secrets of life.
He couldn't fathom how so many shared her taste-enough to sustain three sequels. Each recycled the same formula: four men and four women randomly paired. You could list their names in two columns and draw random lines-that was your script. Mathematically, they could continue forever. Mercifully, the third film ends with all four mismatched couples having a group wedding, finally concluding this cash-grabbing scheme aimed at impressionable teenagers.
To him, Pure Love Paradox hardly merited the name "film." Then again, perhaps film standards need not apply. Despite its abysmal quality, it dared to storm the silver screen-and still turned a profit, including the six tickets Wang Qinzhi bought with his own money. So it must brace itself for the nitpicking of this consumer-cum-harsh amateur critic-a paradox in itself.
At bottom, Yan simply had a penchant for bad movies. Yet their debate grew so toxic it culminated in a breakup. Wang reflected: was he too dogmatic, unable to let go of right and wrong? Whenever he discussed anything, he drifted into argument mode-exactly what clashed with Yan's own stubborn streak.
He had sparred with his father more than once over the "physics" of a light switch. Wang installed a smart-home system back in his hometown-enter, and curtains would close while all lights snapped on. His father, however, was born with an energy-saving gene, manually turning off every light except in his own room, even the corridor skylight lamp that shifted color with time-a lamp Wang had installed to evoke his parents' rural memories.
He had patiently explained time and again-from rooftops and roaming airships bristling with solar panels to the sixth-generation nuclear plant on Dongli Island, even orbital wireless PV satellites-that today's power was plentiful and cheap: running every lamp cost a fraction of a pension, auto-debited from his account, numbers he never revealed. A well-lit home lifted moods and prevented stumbles in the dark. His father's sole reply: "I'm used to saving; every cent counts," and "If it bothers you, come home less often." Their debate replayed like a scratched record, never reaching its end.
Indeed, principles must be upheld. Relentless compromise risks leaving you cornered with nowhere to retreat. A couple's aesthetic rift is like restoring a Song-dynasty Buddha: one insists on faithful conservation, the other splashes it in LEGO hues. The fact they didn't come to blows is evidence of humanity's advanced civilization.
A breakup over such trifles? Unthinkable. Yan was eight years his junior-her blend of innocence and stubborn charm he adored. Who else would endure a cinema trip only to dissect each frame afterward? In Dongdu City, the new generation drowns in VR, oblivious to past or future. Wang knew that if he truly let go, his only kindred spirits would dwell in Douban's comment threads.
Yet the outcome felt sealed: even if he won Yan Lili back, that scar of "pure love" would remain etched on time's spine. The only true solution, he decided, was to visit the Yesterday Bureau itself-to wield its uncanny powers, erase that wretched movie night, and redefine the day that had already passed.
2
In the new era, most people would dismiss the Yesterday Bureau's exterior as entirely unremarkable. Yet seated among Dongdu City's soaring skyscrapers and draped in layers of augmented reality, it sticks out like a chicken among cranes. Two elongated three-story wings linked by a central corridor form an "H" when viewed from above. The complex is wrapped in decades of grime and bird droppings, exuding a sense of decay. It's virtually a replica of some nondescript office block from sixty or seventy years ago-except that here, at the Yesterday Bureau, time seems to flow by different rules.
Two banners drape its facade: "The past may be altered, but life cannot be relived," and "Better to struggle today than regret yesterday." For an institution like this, those slogans read as little more than formalistic self-indulgence-let us hope at least they inspire the petitioners who enter.
Against its weathered backdrop, the bureau's renown is unparalleled-like a scandal-plagued internet celebrity and the favorite punchline of local gossip. Whether they like it or not, most Dongdu City residents have some brush with this place.
A random street interview would yield endless jibes: "Just look at the clerks' faces at those service windows-they're like reheated instant noodles: gooey, shapeless, and devoid of flavor."
Another wag might quip, "When you file to revise yesterday, they'll reply, 'Sorry, we already knew about that yesterday.'"
Some even jest, "The bureau's professionalism is more absurd than the plot of Pure Love Paradox." (Wang Qinzhi, of course, would vehemently disagree.)
Wang Qinzhi pulled up to the main gate and honked twice. Inside the guard shack, Captain Liu lay sprawled in his chair, his cap tossed aside, a bottle in one arm, eyes closed. With a single mechanical gesture, he pressed the gate button.
The lot's lines were long worn away, cars parked at odd angles in chaotic disarray. Brown grass scattered with dead leaves, petals rotting in concrete cracks-tomorrow's blooms here literally become yesterday's. Stepping out into this neglect amid Dongdu City's bustle surprised him. Having never heard a word about the bureau's reputation, he now doubted whether it could fulfill his hopes.
Maneuvering through the muddle, he squeezed into a narrow gap near the exit, half his car jutting out. Approaching the shack, he read a sign: "25 yuan per hour." Furrowing his brow, he called out, "At that rate, why not repaint the spaces properly?"
Captain Liu lifted one eyelid, gave him a cursory glance, then resumed his slumber.
Captain Liu, now over fifty, had once been a division chief-respectfully called "Chief Liu." He wielded real power in the bureau until some undisclosed scandal saw him severely punished. Being Director Zhang's cousin spared him from dismissal, but he was demoted to guard captain for a quiet retirement. The title "chief" was erased; colleagues, wary of sounding mercenary by calling him "Old Liu," settled on "Lao Chu" (Old Chief), a nod to his former rank. He accepted it in silence. As guard captain, he did little more than mark time.
Liu and Director Zhang had often cavorted together at drinking bouts. Their shared motto: "Drink today, forget yesterday's sins." Whenever the bureau's affairs rose or fell, they'd toast to the moon-drowning joys or sorrows alike. Previous directors went to prison for graft; Zhang still stands unshaken. Rumor has it that Liu took the fall for some of Zhang's misdeeds.
The public has its jokes too. Q: Why is the bureau's efficiency so low? A: Because Director Zhang believes paperwork "improves with age."
Some even quip that the two are the greatest duo when it comes to "working under the influence."
3
Outside the building's security checkpoint sat a woman in uniform, lounging against a long table. In one hand she held her phone; with the other she kept shoveling sunflower seeds into her mouth.
Wang Qinzhi noticed four large red characters taped to the wall behind her: "SCAN TO REGISTER." He pulled out his phone and scanned the code-but instead of registration, it redirected to a "Yesterday Bureau Rewards" page. Confused, he looked up at the woman, who patted the table impatiently without lifting her head. Only then did he spot a smaller QR code stuck to the corner of the desk.
"Name: Wang Qinzhi; Age: 36; Address: 22 Peace East Road, Tianhan District, Dongdu City."
Each time he reached the age field, he had to do mental math-he could only increment his age after his birthday. As a child, he'd heard elders count age from conception and add another year at Lunar New Year-a bygone custom. Today, age talk usually comes when his parents nag him about marriage and kids, but he felt no anxiety. In the country's most developed city, one could still be a "fresh hire" at thirty-five-meaning laid off and re-hired.
The service hall swarmed with people; shouts, chatter, and sighs formed a strange symphony tinged with old-world fatigue. Tall pillars were plastered with mottled notices, now illegible. Under one near the door stood a ticket dispenser, with two people already waiting.
As a newcomer, he leaned forward to watch others. The screen's options dazzled him: Personal Service, Corporate Service, Personal Decision, Collective Decision, Feedback, Revoke Decision, and a grayed-out Complaints option. He wanted to revoke his movie-watching from yesterday. At first glance, Personal Service, Personal Decision, or Revoke Decision all fit-but when his turn came, he hesitated. Suddenly, a stout woman in workwear surfaced from behind a pillar, nearly as wide as the column, radiating authority.
"What do you need?"
"Hello, I broke up with my girlfriend yesterday over a movie, and I want to take that back. But I don't know which service type to choose."
"Don't want to split? Then choose 'Personal Service'-yes, now 'Relationship Service'-confirm." She guided his taps step by step.
He clenched his teeth, wishing her bell-like voice would drop an octave. Every eye within a five-meter radius seemed fixed on him. Embarrassed, he stared at the lifeless screen, pretending no one else existed-he couldn't explain his breakup details to strangers, nor publicly judge his ex. When the prompt appeared, he swiped his ID, ripped off the stub-it read Window 7, No. 0139.
The woman in workwear was actually under fifty and her surname was Gan. However, her regional accent rendered "Gan" almost indistinguishable from the word for a large tub or vat. Combined with her short stature and notably round figure-resembling a vat-colleagues affectionately nicknamed her "Auntie Vat." She handled reception in the bureau's main hall, dispensing tickets and fielding trivial inquiries. Impatient and outspoken, her words often carried a brusque edge. Yet whenever she spoke of her son at Dongdu City Normal University, her face would light up with maternal pride, her gestures animated as she recounted his achievements. Rumor had it that, because the campus's gender ratio was so skewed, her son changed girlfriends nearly every semester-and Auntie Vat treated each new romance as proof of his irresistible charm. Other parents would only laugh awkwardly, while those with daughters tended to steer clear of her.
Waiting in line felt interminable-like those end-credits before the post-credits scene, you can only watch every roll of names. In the waiting area, an older man sat beside him, looking world-weary and beaten by life's gamble, brow furrowed as if he'd already lost.
"Hey, buddy, you trade stocks or funds?"
The older man gave him a deep look. "I made a decision yesterday that ruined my life."
"What happened?"
Though Wang knew little of finance, he was endlessly curious about others' investment tales-especially the disastrous ones.
The man cleared his throat. "I poured years of savings into a company called Future Illusion VR Tech. Today-well, who could've guessed? The first- and second-rank firms are slugging it out in a price war, and number three got obliterated."
Wang thought, though no tech insider, he knew the VR market was saturated-dominated by two giants, VisionNet and Dongdu City Visions. He'd never heard of a third player. Besides, anyone calling themselves top three is invariably in third place, and at least half a dozen claim that rank. Sure, markets love disruptors-but was Future Illusion one? He doubted the man was anywhere near that class.
Most of the bureau's visitors filed claims to recoup financial losses. Yet if every request were approved, everyone would profit-an absurd market collapse. If Wang were the approver, he'd reject the man's plea. One must accept one's bet.
"You're bold-how did you sink all your cash into this?"
"I joined an investment tip group-paid 28,800 yuan for insider news."
"Oh-rather than come here, you should call the cops."
Wang refocused, legs bouncing as he stared at the dense pixel grid of the ticket screen. The man opened his mouth to speak again but, seeing no response, smartly fiddled with his phone.
"Don't you have anything better to do? So many waiting-stop dawdling!" Auntie Vat shouted at a form-filler just as 0139 flashed. Wang hurried forward, handing his ID and stub to the staffer at Window 7-her badge read "Tang Jie."
"Um, my girlfriend and I saw a movie yesterday-an absolutely terrible one-and we argued so badly we broke up. I'd like to revoke that movie-watching so we can patch things up." His logic was crystal clear.
"What movie?" Tang asked.
"Pure Love Paradox 3."
"And who decided it was bad?"
"I did. It's illogical drivel with tacky sexual antics."
"But didn't all four couples pair off successfully and marry? Hardly tacky."
"Ah?"
Caught off guard by her disdainful stare, he realized he wasn't there to debate the film's merits. No point arguing.
"I just want to undo the movie-watch so I don't break up with my girlfriend."
A young intern peered over Tang's shoulder. "If you can't grasp onscreen romance, how can you do it in real life? Maybe your problem isn't the movie."
He hadn't noticed her-the petite intern had been hidden behind Tang. Clean and composed, she reminded him of Wang Zhiying.
At Huaihai Central University, Wang Zhiying was a junior-beautiful, pure, sweet-an eye-catching campus star. They met at a mixer when she was a first-year magnet for suitors. Wang agonized whether to join the ranks, then concluded:
-He had zero experience wooing girls.
-No math model could account for the top girl dating him.
-He'd missed the moment-the line of admirers was so long printer paper ran out on her charm tickets.
A year after graduation, he belatedly regretted it. He heard Zhiying was with a local delinquent-and it was her first love. He couldn't fathom losing to a hooligan. Later, he grasped an unwritten rule: the more adored a girl, the more cowards circle but never act; the most shameless who pester persistently win, regardless of merit. Yet he also comforted himself that her taste might not be worth chasing-after all, one's choice in partners reflects one's aesthetic. Now, he found himself trapped in judging her taste.
"You can't do that here," Tang said, yanking him back to harsh reality.
"Why not?" he stammered.
"Movie-watching is entertainment service-Window 11."
"But I filed for emotional reasons."
"That's irrelevant. Movies are entertainment."
"Could you help me? I've waited half a day."
"This isn't my department," she replied icily.
"Then can I just go to Window 11 now?"
"Go get a new ticket."
With that, Tang began assisting claimant 0140, her tone unchanging-this was routine. Wang's frustration simmered; was Tang deliberately stalling him because she liked Pure Love Paradox 3, or had Auntie Vat guided him to the wrong service?
"Select 'Personal Service,' then 'Economic Service,' confirm." Wang had mastered the bureau's quirks and even began guiding the junior ahead of him, playing the seasoned veteran. To avoid more interaction with Auntie Vat, he whispered his taps and moved swiftly. He even suppressed the urge to help the woman behind him-his only desire was to reach Window 11 as soon as possible, a longing more urgent than his old pursuit of Wang Zhiying.
4
Amid the hustle of the service hall, a group of elderly people suddenly surged in, shouting demands to defend their legal rights. Some held placards reading, "You scammed us, Yesterday Bureau-give back our pensions!" "Old but strong-funds must grow!" "My time is not yours!" They also chanted, "Protect our rights-render us justice!" Their voices ranged from booming to resonant, raised in unison. Around the edges, a few grandparents passed out protest leaflets to those waiting in line.
At first, the chaos left everyone bewildered and annoyed by the sudden commotion. But when they caught sight of the deep lines of age on the elders' faces and the unwavering resolve in their eyes, they felt a tremendous energy gathering in that confined space.
Listening closely, they realized the bureau was implicated in a financial scam-the seniors' hard-earned pensions had been stolen. They demanded the Yesterday Bureau return their money.
At the forefront stood Teacher Lao Li, her silver hair neatly coiled into a bun, framed by gold-rimmed glasses and a deep purple coat-she looked composed and dignified. A respected former sociology professor at Dongdu City University for thirty years, even in retirement she retained sharp intellect and a strong sense of social responsibility.
"We seniors are not here to cause trouble-and frankly, we cannot," Lao Li announced. "We've only come because our pensions were stolen by this bureau. This is not your staff's fault. We want Director Zhang and Mr. Pang to come out and give us justice." Clearly the group's leader and spokesperson, her calm, wise tone and firm stance inspired trust. Once she finished, the others fell silent, the protest remarkably orderly. Bureau staff approached to hear her story.
It turned out they'd joined a "Time Crowdfunding Plan" led by an alleged Science Exploration Director Pang of the Yesterday Bureau. Pang claimed the plan would extend participants' lifespans by funding a device called the "Time Collector," which purportedly gathered "time fragments" when participants quietly sat on it for long periods. Citing quantum mechanics and persistent suggestion, Pang said fragments would magnetically collect in a container under the seat. After paying a deposit, each member got one Collector free-but to boost their fragment-gathering odds, they needed to buy and resell additional units. Each sale supposedly increased their own Collector's yield by one percent.
This was clearly a pyramid scam, and Wang Qinzhi couldn't help but pity the elderly victims. (That buying extra lottery tickets boosts your odds is theoretically true-if the draw is truly random.)
The seniors recounted how Pang rattled off half-understood theories-string theory, cosmic particles, four-dimensional space-then thoughtfully shared dubious health tips: don't eat vinegar with dumplings or you'll harm stomach acids and risk cancer; the Collector's infrared heated cushion cures hemorrhoids better than Kegel exercises. Astonishingly, free eggs were handed out at the seminar.
These ordinary elders simply longed for more time in this world. Yet Mr. Pang vanished with all the funds, leaving chaos, anger, and helplessness in the hall-these people represented only a fraction of the duped. United, they chanted Director Zhang's and Pang's names, vowing to fight for justice. Even Captain Liu was dragged into the fray, a few aunts waving signs before him. Tired, one thrust a placard-"Stealing money kills lives!"-into his arms; he stared blankly, hungover and amnesic, blending seamlessly into the protest.
5
According to descriptions, time fragments are irregular geometric crystals-transparent with a dark-yellow hue and an amber-like texture. Whether a miraculous gift of the cosmos or the byproduct of an industrial assembly line, few have witnessed their power firsthand. Yet the legends swirl so vividly you'd think they truly exist.
Some say that one quiet night, a trucker racing on the highway to save tolls spotted an eerie light behind a tree two meters off the ground. Investigating with a branch, he dislodged a glowing shard. As he picked it up, he suddenly found himself two days earlier inside a deserted warehouse, even seeing his own busy back-then the fragment slipped from his hand and he was back beside the tree. Terrified, he fled. When he returned next day, the rift and shard were gone.
Others claim time fragments are magical memory storers: by touching one, you can replay past moments as if reliving them. Rumor even says they raise the owner's lifespan cap-like an RPG power-up-collect enough and you could live forever. Few know where this mystical "time bank" resides.
Unsurprisingly, many fragments appear on e-commerce sites. They vary in shape-like broken shards of thick glass-each tinted some shade of yellow. One seller marketed them as "decorations," selling only a handful. Others hawk them as mystical enhancers, requiring "sincerity" to work-and none allow no-questions-asked returns.
None of that concerned Wang Qinzhi-at that moment Window 11 was calling his number: 0308.
Seated at the counter was a young man named Long Yiming. He sported a smart, high-maintenance crew cut that showed off his looks, his expression serious. He wore a crisp white shirt, with his uniform jacket neatly draped over the chair back.
Long Yiming listened intently to Wang Qinzhi's explanation, took his ID and movie ticket, then produced a stack of forms. One by one, he handed them over, patiently explaining each: the application, disclaimer, "Time-Understanding Assessment," marriage certificate or single-status proof, relationship description, corporate invoicing options (standard vs. special), and so on. His friendly manner stood out among the staid staff, leaving Wang pleasantly surprised that someone here could provide decently normal service.
Some questions on the application struck Wang as absurd: "What font does the movie title use?" "How many times did you yawn during the screening?" "Have you ever received formal film-criticism training?"
The first question was easy: Wang had seen all three Pure Love Paradox films and was a bona fide "Pure Love Warrior" (the fan nickname). Such teen romance flicks share hallmarks-ever-longer titles like I Want to Hug You on the Spring Meadow, You and Me, No More Farewells, Love Guru: Just Want to Be With You 2, names so unwieldy they couldn't possibly become hits, weaker than many B-movie horror titles. The Pure Love Paradox series bucked that trend-perhaps why it sold so well. As for fonts, they typically used a delicate handwritten style, softer than standard brush type, printed in white or magenta on dreamy posters-clearly the work of a single ad agency designer's template.
There was also, "Who won the argument?"
This question stumped Wang, his face contorting into a grimace. In yesterday's fight, neither side backed down; no clear victory emerged, and they parted ways. Reflecting on it, his efforts to reconcile proved he hadn't "won," yet he hadn't conceded either-he ridiculed her taste, while her storming off was hardly triumphant.
By that metric, his presence at the Yesterday Bureau signaled defeat. What if the breakup was exactly what Yan Lili wanted? Two hours and the price of a ticket freed her from a stubborn, emotionally tone-deaf, unromantic boyfriend. And he, still trying to win her back-what would she think? Wang felt drained, yet stubbornly refused to give up. Since neither side truly lost, he marked the result "mutual win."
With everything in order, Long Yiming meticulously verified the data on his screen. "Yan Lili, right?" he asked Wang. "Where is your girlfriend now?"
Taken aback, Wang stammered, "What? Find her?"
"That's right-watching the movie was a joint action, so to undo it you both must be present." Long began scanning the hall eagerly for any sign of her.
"Uh... does she really have to come? Can't I apply alone?"
"Policy forbids it," Long explained patiently. "You two are quantumly entangled in yesterday's timeline. Altering one side alone causes irreversible systemic fallout." Wang fell silent, struck by his earnest gaze.
"Can you call her now and get her here before we close?"
Wang rubbed his hands. "Uh-we've already broken up. I came here because I can't face her... If I tell her to come with me to undo our breakup, why wouldn't I just crawl on my knees and beg her to reconcile? Isn't that absurd?"
"I've never dated-sorry." Long gave a rueful smile, then resumed his review, brow furrowed.
Wang planted his hands on the counter, bewildered, fingertips tapping the marble in a steady beat. A chill ran from his arm to his heart. He'd tried so hard to win her back-especially after filling out those brain-melting questions. Now, hopeless, he realized he couldn't bring Yan Lili here. Yet Long seemed reasonable-maybe he could be persuaded, even bribed. Wang plunged his hand into his bag, rummaging for something, then abruptly froze.
He studied the young man's pristine name badge-just recently made permanent, the picture of an unblemished go-getter. If Long fell into gray dealings here, tasted the sweet fruits of corruption, he'd be lost, ending up like Tang Jie, Auntie Vat, or Captain Liu-a fate Wang dared not engineer.
Before he could pull his hand free, Long suddenly asked, "Who bought these two tickets?"
"I did."
A spark lit Long's eyes. In a conspiratorial tone, he told Wang: "One person can't change two people's actions, but one person can change the decision to buy the ticket-no ticket, no movie."
Wang smacked his forehead, enlightened. "So it's not about undoing both of us watching the movie but reversing my purchase of the ticket. Ha! Genius!" He admired the young man's cleverness and customer-first thinking-Long could one day replace Director Zhang... though he wondered if Long's liver could handle the bureau's drinking culture.
At last, under Long's guidance, every page of Wang's application received a "Approved" stamp. Long then whisked them off to the department manager for the bureau seal. Overjoyed, Wang thanked him profusely. Long pushed the papers back across the counter and instructed him: take them to Window 1 for five photocopies each, then go through the rear door to the Reversal Hall to retrieve yesterday's ticket-purchase footage, and pay the service fee back at the counter.
Wang counted the documents-ID copies and tickets, fifteen pages total-and laid them gently on Window 1's counter. The clerk inside was playing a 2.5D web game called Battle for Ganymede, listlessly clicking his mouse as his star soldier rained 9999 damage on aliens. Wang greeted him politely; the clerk grudgingly abandoned his idle clicker to feed Wang's pages into the copier, then leaned back to click a few times between machine whirs.
When the copies were done, the clerk used tiny metal clips to separate the five sets. Wang felt a warm glow at such attention to detail-his negative feelings toward the bureau peeled away a bit. He only winced at the mismatched clip colors.
"That comes to 400 yuan-scan here."
"Four hundred?" Wang's pupils dilated.
"Four hundred-375 for copies, 25 for clips."
"Fifteen pages, five copies each," Wang did quick math. "That's five yuan per copy? A street print shop is one yuan."
The clerk said nothing, tapping the QR code on the glass-he'd clearly grown tired of explaining. Wang could only stand there, helpless, as the clerk sank back to clicking around his game map, then switched to the top-up screen.
After a moment's silence, Wang asked, "Can I waive the clips?"
"That's the bureau's standard policy."
"Damn." Wang muttered. He hated conflict-outside of fights with Yan Lili, he seldom argued. She'd once asked him why he was so harsh with those close to him yet polite and friendly to strangers. Why he always hurt those he loved most.
He hadn't had an answer then-and now he didn't want to argue with Yan Lili anymore.
6
A corridor led out from the side door of the service hall, turning north to a rear entrance that opened onto a long gallery. Along the walls between windows hung the bureau's regulations and plaques honoring exemplary staff. Wang Qinzhi glanced over them-no sign of Long Yiming, and neither Tang Jie nor Auntie Vat appeared. He followed the gallery to its end and entered the Time-Reversal Hall.
In the center stood a cubicle-style workspace, with machines arranged like ATMs in a circle around the perimeter. Each screen bore the faded label "4D Reversal Machine." Bewildered, Wang approached and, seeing a free unit, stood before it to investigate.
Copying others, he placed his stamped application form onto the scanner. A progress bar slid across the screen, listing his requested service. Among the buttons, he quickly selected "Retrieve Footage." A spinning loading icon appeared at center screen, turning indefinitely. Wang stared at it, as each rotation seemed to stretch time itself. Memories of his entire ordeal at the Yesterday Bureau flooded his mind-he finally had a moment to reflect on the absurdity, all for the sake of winning back Yan Lili. Regret for yesterday and today's struggle wove together in his heart, and he wondered if he truly needed to alter the past.
With a microwave-like "ding," the footage finished loading. He played it: the camera's POV hovered before him like a drone locked onto his head, unnervingly precise. Never had he seen a surveillance camera track someone so intimately. He glanced off-screen toward the empty space, then at the ceiling-mounted monitors, straining to imagine hidden lenses.
The image sharpened. A woman wearing sunglasses and scowling into view-she wasn't Yan Lili, but his ex-wife, Ye Jing. Shock froze him. Two-year-old footage? Impossible.
In the clip, Ye Jing approached from behind carrying two milk teas; he stood by the ticket kiosk, then they entered the cinema together. The film was the first Pure Love Paradox from two years ago. Instantly, memory engulfed him-he had hoped romance might ease their marital tensions, but the movie's nonsensical tangles bored him within thirty minutes. The dim glow of the exit sign fascinated him more than the screen, and he stole glances at Ye Yong's blissful face illuminated by the projector.
Before he could even slip into the restroom, they clashed over the film's quality and who paid for such garbage-the debate grew heated. The two-year-old scene replayed itself in his mind as though merging with today's.
He had endured it all in this dilapidated building-apathetic staff, labyrinthine procedures, snail-paced service, and extortionate fees. Now the bureau had even conflated his current girlfriend with his ex-wife, archiving his private footage without consent, ready to retrieve at any moment. That final violation broke his limit-he stormed back into the service hall in a fury.
Chaos filled the hall, marring visibility. Wang marched to Window 11-but Long Yiming's seat was empty, and no staff remained at their stations. He scanned the room: the protesting elders occupied the waiting chairs while other petitioners formed a ring around them. Staff were trapped in the center, desperately mediating with the front-line seniors.
Deputy Director Lao Zheng descended from the second floor and entered the crowd. The elders leapt to their feet, their shouts rising. Raising his hand to hush them, Lao Zheng cleared his throat and spoke calmly:
"Folks, please stay calm. I'm nearly sixty myself-just ten more years until retirement-so may I call you 'elder brothers and sisters'? I hear your anger and concern, but trust me: the Yesterday Bureau never ran any time-crowdfunding project. This so-called Director Pang is not our staff."
"But Pang claimed to be the bureau's Science Exploration chief, and we believed him because we trusted you," Teacher Lao Li retorted, earning nods of agreement.
"Look, we have a Services Department, Review Department, HR, Relations, Archives, Finance, Logistics, Security, and External Coordination-but no Science Exploration Department. We have no tech to explore here. Criminals must have hijacked our name; the bureau itself had nothing to do with this fraud."
"We transferred our funds to a Time Bank account-that account is under your bureau's name."
"The Yesterday Bureau is not a bank; I've never heard of a Time Bank. But rest assured, elders-I've already called the police. Arguing here won't help until the scammer is brought to justice."
Hearing Lao Zheng, the elders' volume dropped but they remained unconvinced, insisting the bureau still bore some responsibility.
Seeing some effect, Lao Zheng pulled a green booklet from his pocket-the bureau's "Guidelines on Preventing Illegal Time-Collection" (the Manual). He had staff fetch boxes of copies from storage and distributed one to each elder. He explained the bureau long ago instituted preventive measures, detailed in this Manual. The seniors fell silent, donned their glasses, and began reading.
In truth, these Manuals had languished in storage, packed with bloated, empty prose-each clause crafted to be ever longer, more convoluted, and obscure-a lavish waste of paper and ink. Few bureau staff had ever finished one. They bore no author credits, though rumor had it an intern wrote them and was dismissed for failing to secure a permanent post by her thirty-fifth birthday, her name scrubbed.
"Why didn't you show us this sooner?" Teacher Lao Li challenged.
"This booklet is preventive; anyone can register at the warehouse any time to receive a free copy. It's the bureau's public service, so we're handing them out today," Lao Zheng replied calmly.
"Our money is already gone-what good is a prevention guide now?" Teacher Lao Li retorted.
"This Manual has always existed; you just hadn't collected it. True, our outreach could've been better. But please read it carefully: there is no such thing as time fragments or a Time Bank-do not trust it, and do not transfer funds."
7
While the elders pored over the Manual, trying to make sense of it, Wang Qinzhi leaned against a wall in the hall's corner, slipping his hand into his bag to grip that beautiful stone. He stared down at it without removing it. It was a transparent geometric crystal, faintly glowing amber, cool to the touch and smooth at the edges. In its dim radiance, he seemed to perceive blurred images-he had discovered it purely by chance just yesterday.
His mind drifted back to yesterday afternoon: leaving home with a large cardboard box under his arm and two oversized woven bags on his shoulders, all filled with old books and clothes, he had trudged toward the second-hand goods shop across the street, his steps heavy with effort.
Offline thrift shops were rare within Dongdu City's outer ring. Before moving here, Wang had only shopped online, never expecting a brick-and-mortar store right across his complex, where locals also consigned used items. The first time he entered was last year, when house-hunting. Finding it by chance, he boxed up everything he no longer needed and unloaded it at the shop's entrance, leaving a neat pile that made a lasting impression on the owner.
The owner was a bespectacled middle-aged man with a light beard and perpetually squinting smile. He noted that the books Wang brought last time were nearly new and sold out quickly. Glancing at his box, Wang saw a few pristine volumes-books he'd bought expecting to read or recommended by celebrities, yet only skimmed the title. Once, passing a bookstore's bestseller table, he spotted a book titled Stay True to Yourself, and those four words resonated deeply. Now that very book lay sealed in his box-he'd bought it to show agreement with its title, having already proven himself too self-determined, twice costing him relationships.
As the owner tallied the books and clothes, Wang's gaze was drawn to a charity poster on the opposite wall, soliciting donations for Sichuan's mountainous regions. The moment he saw it, his plan shifted. He realized selling these items would fetch little money; better to give them to those in need. Moreover, goods discarded in a prosperous city might spark new possibilities in remote areas-an act of kindness beyond monetary value. Perhaps a child lacking confidence would see that book's title and find inspiration.
Wang scanned the poster's QR code to register. The owner cheerfully packed his donations and invited him to choose a small gift. He hadn't expected much-tired of moving his own "99-percent new" castoffs. But at a corner shelf he spotted the transparent yellow crystal. Uncertain of its name or composition, he admired its smooth feel and simple elegance-perfect as a decorative piece. The owner knew little about it either and unhesitatingly gave it to him.
Sitting on the shop's front steps, Wang toyed with the amber crystal. Afternoon sunlight made it gleam like a shard from an alien crystal mine. It stood apart from the everyday goods on the shelves-its mystery deepening the longer he stared. If anyone claimed it was a fragment of four-dimensional space, it didn't seem entirely impossible.
Time slipped by until his phone vibrated incessantly. Wang snapped back-Yan Lili had called him dozens of times. Panicked, he returned her call. She sounded upset; she'd already dressed and waited for him to drive over. To make amends, he booked two tickets to Pure Love Paradox 3, hoping to soothe her mood before their reserved dinner.
Another ring drew him from his reverie-he was still leaning in the hall's corner, crystal in hand. This time it was his mother calling.
"Qinzi, we bought a health device. The power light's on, but the function light keeps blinking-what's wrong?"
Wang rubbed his forehead, puzzled. "What device?"
"A wellness gadget Dad got two days ago. It worked fine, but today the light won't stop flashing, and the seat won't heat."
"A heated seat? For health?"
"Yes... it has three lights: power, function, and network. The middle one never stops blinking."
Meanwhile, Wang noticed protest leaflets scattered at his feet. One pamphlet displayed a photo of the Time Collector, its backrest, three indicator lights, and cushion matching his mother's description exactly. He realized the "health device" she mentioned was the Collector. Gently, he picked up the leaflet and flipped to the troubleshooting section.
"Mom, see if there's a reset button under the backrest-hold it for five seconds, then release," he suggested.
His mother paused, then said, "Oh-it's fixed! All the lights are steady... I really don't understand these high-tech things. Hey, are you and Lili coming for dinner tonight?"
"Ah-she's working late. We'll go another day."
He slowly lowered the phone, a wave of helplessness washing over him. His own parents were no different from the duped elders.
They had arrived in Dongdu City in their prime, before it became a municipality. They toiled through its rise, and Wang was born as the city grew. Now, Dongdu City was the nation's most prosperous hub, yet his parents, aged and trusting, had fallen for the pension scam. Worse, they hadn't realized it and would surely have joined the protest if they had.
And here he was, their son, his life in disarray, unable even to maintain his own love. He reexamined the scene and thought: perhaps changing the past wasn't the answer. In that moment, Wang Qinzhi felt like a single, weighty speck of dust drifting helplessly in the unrelenting current of time.
8
Suddenly, a fashionably dressed woman hurried into the hall, instantly catching Wang Qinzhi's eye. Amidst the unadorned elders, her slender legs stood out. He froze, staring at her. After a moment of disbelief, he recognized her as his ex-wife, Ye Jing. Her face was slightly fuller than two years ago-perhaps due to leaving her ad agency job to become a food vlogger-and she seemed to be thriving. Ye Jing was a culinary whiz; he remembered her braised tomato beef stew as his favorite dish.
In the past two years, he had occasionally seen her videos. Knowing Ye Jing's integrity, he doubted she faked eating or stitched shots like other streamers-she would really eat everything, and her dishes were delicious. She, in turn, sensed the sharp, critical gaze he cast. At last, they locked eyes-awkwardly, without any romantic soundtrack-just two people who once resented each other and begrudged a shared future, both feeling mutual embarrassment. In that subtle moment, they turned away simultaneously-a shared, silent understanding.
Ten years ago, at the height of youth, a reunion might have frozen on a tender glance. They would smile shyly, exchange greetings, then admit some regret for their breakup-both having remained single and grown emotionally. Finally, in a sweet, serene moment, their fingertips would touch and, like first love, shyly interlock as they walked together into a pink glow worthy of a starlight headlamp-more plausible than any Pure Love Paradox twist.
Yet reality was different. They were only momentarily puzzled by what fresh folly had driven each to the Yesterday Bureau to undo. That curiosity flickered in his mind for a mere hundredth of a second before vanishing.
Still, Wang's curiosity triumphed; he instinctively edged closer to Ye Jing. He dared to do so because everyone else in the hall was riveted on the standoff between Lao Zheng and Teacher Lao Li.
Standing behind her, he tried to break the silence but couldn't find the right words. His mind flicked through thirty-six opening lines before he settled on the bluntest:
"What are you doing here?"
"None of your f***ing business."
A standard greeting.
Yet Wang felt no shame-watching her walk away with half-lidded eyes, he smirked inwardly. He had even wanted to ask if she'd re-evaluated the first Pure Love Paradox film. Yan Lili's fondness was forgivable-she was young-but Ye Jing, nine months his senior, surely outgrew such fare. Wang prided himself on consistency: he watched all three sequels, still called them trash, seeing it as a service-first for Ye Jing, then for Yan Lili.
The Pure Love Paradox series had cost him dearly-two lovers lost. He realized the rift with each was fundamentally different: with Ye Jing, both used that film spat as a breakup pretext; with Yan Lili, it was merely a routine squabble. Ye Jing had moved on; now Wang's own new life was about to begin.
Ye Jing's disdain (apart from that brief glance) stemmed from a PR disaster: she had misspoken and told an ill-advised joke during a live stream. Running into her useless ex at the Yesterday Bureau only amplified her misfortune.
Last night, she had done a livestream cooking demo for Yunhai Bay Fishery, making braised yellow croaker-viewership soared. During taste-testing, someone asked, "Is this croaker from Lanka Fish Farm?"
Ye Jing quipped, "If they shipped yellow croaker from Lanka Island, the vegetables would've gone cold. Ours are born and raised in Yunhai Bay. When they arrived, they were still innocent maidens."
Pleased with her witty response, she laughed-only to be reported for regional discrimination and insulting women. Critics said she disrespected Lanka Island's people by mocking the distance, harming ethnic unity. They also charged her with objectifying women, calling the fish "virgins" as though equating purity to maidenhood-an unacceptable offense even for a woman.
Seeing her name trending this morning, Ye Jing's face went pale-she realized she was doomed if those two accusations stuck. Soon, her livestream channel was banned amid a mob of online condemnation. After an emergency meeting, she and her team agreed the best course was to come to the Yesterday Bureau and roll back the incident.
9
Long Yiming called out to Wang Qinzhi, alerting him that the counters might have reopened. Grateful, Wang noticed only Window 7 was staffed by the intern who reminded him of Wang Zhiying. He dashed forward to be first in line.
"Hello, but I think the reversal machine over there erred-the footage I saw wasn't from yesterday..."
"Sorry, we're off duty."
"What? It's only 4:30." Wang glanced at the large clock in the hall.
"Yes-our hours are Mon-Fri, 10 AM-12 PM and 2:30 PM-4:30 PM."
"You only work four hours a day?"
"Our concept of time here is not something you can comprehend, understand?"
"But my request isn't complete yet. I only need one more step for approval, and I've spent half a day here-I can't leave empty-handed."
"At quitting time, the bureau's system shuts down automatically. Even if I wanted to help, I can't-got it?"
The intern's desk was nearly cleared when Tang Jie, bag in hand, approached.
"Sister Tang, I've bought tickets for the third screening of Pure Love Paradox 3. We'll arrive just in time-and can grab bubble tea on the way."
"Bubble tea is on me-extra light sugar," Tang Jie said with a smile.
Wang's spirits plummeted as reality hit. "So do I have to come back tomorrow to finish this?"
Tang Jie fished a slip from her drawer and flung it at him. "You don't need to return here. This is out of our jurisdiction. Take this and your documents to the 'Day-Before-Yesterday Bureau' tomorrow-they'll handle the rest." With that, they turned and vanished.
At that moment, the hall's speakers crackled with a suona rendition of the classic saxophone tune "Going Home," tugging at Wang's frayed nerves. The crowd thinned until he stood alone. He'd thought the Yesterday Bureau's promise was a lifeline-but the grass was too slippery, leaving him with nothing to grasp. He tumbled into time's abyss.
Clenching his fists, he tensed every muscle, heedless of onlookers, and let out a sudden, quaking roar-expending all his pent-up energy.
The unexpected sound startled those leaving; heads turned in puzzled curiosity. Ye Jing caught his gaze, shook her head in contempt, tucked the referral slip into her bag, and hurried away.
Auntie Vat shouted, "Stop the ululating-lockup's in five!"
Unaware, Wang didn't notice her approach. She gently tapped his arm with the green Manual, her voice two octaves lower:
"Young man, the police are on it-they'll freeze the scammer's account and recover your funds. Don't worry. Take this booklet home and show it to your parents-don't fret them."
Since entering the bureau, Wang had endured numerous setbacks. He never expected Auntie Vat to show such kindness. He harbored no resentment at her forgetfulness-after all, with so many visitors each day, how could she recall whether his request was entertainment, financial, or emotional?
Wang drove to the gate exit; the toll display read 25 yuan. Captain Liu strolled over, noting every partial hour is billed at 25. As Wang paid, he thought that had he truly spent just an hour inside, the system must be wrong. Relishing this rare chance to get one over on them, he handed over the cash and sped away.
10
Wang Qinzhi bought some fruit on the way home and staggered up to his parents' door. The lock's camera recognized him at once and clicked open. Pushing inside, he wasn't surprised to find the lights off; in the gloom, only three indicator lamps on the Time Collector's backrest cast a faint green glow against his father's silhouette. He found the wall switch and flipped on the lights, immediately spotting his father seated there in solemn stillness-at once resembling a statesman before the nuclear launch console.
Father and son stared at each other as if time itself had frozen, neither sure who should speak first. After a tense half-minute, his father leaned on the backrest and rose stiffly-his leg had gone numb. Gasping through clenched teeth, he shuffled toward the bathroom and said, "Your mother went to buy groceries. I told her to make your favorite-tomato braised beef."
He had always been quick to correct his parents, lecturing them not to be so easily deceived-usually sparking another argument. But now a different voice rose within him. He no longer wanted to chastise them so harshly. Why not let them hold onto hope, afford them a little room for brighter expectations?
After all, life often rests on beautiful hopes for the unknown-even if that beauty never arrives.
Silently, Wang withdrew the yellow crystal from his bag. In the Collector's dim indicator glow, it shimmered with an otherworldly sheen. He lifted the seat's cover plate, slipped the gem inside, gently closed it, and sat down.
He chuckled-his backside felt quite warm. Was the machine heating itself, or had his father's warmth lingered?
On the white wall before him hung a digital frame looping through their family's history: the parents' awkward early selfies, their puckered "lemon-face" expressions; then their joyous wedding; then infant Wang wrapped in swaddling clothes, so tiny he might be blown away by a breeze-no one then would have guessed that a five-pound child would grow to six feet tall. Next came vibrant vacation shots, Wang nearly towering over his father; finally a close-up of Wang's mature jawline. His father had been sitting here, silently watching those rolling images.
Moments later, he retrieved the referral slip from his bag, tore it to shreds, and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket. Then he pulled out his phone, opened the pinned chat with Yan Lili, and typed three soothing, powerful characters: "I'm sorry."