第 003 Ch.| The Acceptance Letter That Doesn't Exist

That night Lan Yingchen slept badly.

He woke three times in the small hours. Each time he first checked that his bag was still at the foot of the bed, then that the bronze mirror was still in the inner pocket of the bag. The third time was 04:17, and he simply sat up and waited for dawn.

He kept turning over what Jiang Wanxin had said. Go check the mailbox tomorrow morning, before nine. And the other thing she'd said too — if you decide not to come, the letter will vanish on its own after noon tomorrow, as though it had never been sent.

He couldn't tell which line made him more nervous.

It wasn't light out yet; the only sound was the old caretaker sweeping the pavement. At 06:38, Lan Yingchen pulled on his coat and went downstairs.

He knew it was early — too early. Early enough that he had to admit it: he wasn't afraid the letter would be gone after nine. He was afraid he might hesitate. Go down early, and there'd be no time left to hesitate.

He tugged the strap of his bag up onto his shoulder, one foot already on the first step at the foot of the stairs. Whether the letter was still there, he'd know once he went down; what he wanted to know more was whether he would actually make it all the way down those stairs.

---

The mailboxes stood at the foot of the stairs on the ground floor, one slot per unit, blue iron boxes. By 2065 most apartment blocks had torn out their physical mailboxes, replaced by delivery lockers at the door; the building Lan Yingchen lived in was an old one from the 1980s, the mailboxes still there, the keys still ordinary brass keys rather than wrist-sensor pads. His unit was 4F-2.

He paused in front of the box.

The bronze mirror in his coat's inner pocket warmed faintly — not heat exactly, more like a fingertip pressed against it through the cloth for a second, then withdrawn.

Lan Yingchen slid the key into the lock and turned. It caught, then turned again. The door opened.

Inside there was only one letter.

Utility bills had long since moved to wrist-device push notifications, and almost no one stuffed flyers or magazines into an old building's mailboxes anymore. This letter stood upright, leaning against the back wall of the box, as though someone had set it there on purpose.

Lan Yingchen stared for a second before reaching in to take it out.

The moment his fingertips touched the wax seal, there was a very faint response — not warmth, but something like having been recognized, the small tremor of a seal pressing down.

The envelope paper was thicker than ordinary. Heavier at the edge than A4, its surface bearing a very faint grain of fiber — the same stock as the card Jiang Wanxin had given him the day before.

The front had only two lines, handwritten, not printed:

To Lan Yingchen
No. 12, Lane 3, Sangu Road, Beigu District, Unit 4F-2

The whole letter carried no trace of having been mailed — no return address, and it hadn't come through the post office.

On the back of the envelope was a round wax seal. Beeswax, deep blue, pressed with a stamp. The image on the stamp was a ring — its gap falling between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

Like the ring on the back of the bronze mirror, like the badge below Jiang Wanxin's collar, like the ring above the street corner that afternoon, like the small emblem in the corner of that Center poster — every one of them a ring, the gap falling between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

Lan Yingchen stood in front of the mailbox looking at it for about ten seconds, then tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his coat and went back upstairs.

---

He didn't go straight to his room and open it.

He went to the kitchen first, poured a glass of water, and finished it slowly before returning to his room. He sat down at his desk and laid the letter flat on its surface.

He took a photo first, with his phone.

In the picture — the envelope was there. The writing was there. The wax seal was there.

But the ring on the wax seal — gone.

In the photo that seal was just a plain piece of deep-blue beeswax, its surface smooth, bearing nothing at all.

Lan Yingchen put his phone away and, with a small craft knife, gently worked the blade along the edge of the seal and lifted it free. The wax came off in one whole piece; the impression didn't crack.

The envelope opened, and inside was a sheet of folded paper, the same stock as the envelope.

He unfolded it. On it was handwriting, the strokes steady and composed:

Lan Yingchen,

You have passed the preliminary review.

The Myriad Academy accepts you as a member of its seventeenth intake.

The nearest marked entrance is at Lane 265, Section 6, Donghuan Road, Beigu — the shrine. From your home it is about 3 kilometers, a forty-minute walk.

Within three days of receiving this letter, please bring it and go. Enter the shrine, pass through the main hall, and leave by the rear door. You will see a corridor.

At the end of the corridor is the Myriad Academy.

If you decide not to come — burn this letter. We will not contact you again.

⸺
Inspector Jiang

Below that last line, “Inspector Jiang,” there was a ring stamp. The gap fell between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

Lan Yingchen read the letter three times. Then he took another photo.

In the picture — the paper was there. Most of the writing was there.

But the four characters that spelled “the Myriad Academy” were blank. The ring stamp below “Inspector Jiang” was blank too.

The name “the Myriad Academy” wouldn't photograph.

---

Lan Yingchen set the phone down, looked at the letter, folded the paper back, and slid it into the envelope. Then he opened his laptop.

Global search: the Myriad Academy.

The first page of results was the Chinese homepage of some cram school in Xizhou, a beauty academy in Nanjin, a church school in Haixie. Not a single one matched the letter. He switched to “Wanxiang Academy” — the result was the training division of a subsidiary of some industrial conglomerate in Jiangkou.

The Department of Education's higher-education database: no results. Encyclopedias across the web, in Chinese, English, Japanese: no entry.

Lan Yingchen tried another keyword — “Lane 265, Section 6, Donghuan Road shrine” — and the city map did show a small shrine at that address. The name displayed as “the Donghuan Earth-God Shrine.”

On the city map the shrine had twenty-two reviews, averaging 4.3 stars, the most recent from three days ago. The reviews said things like “small,” “clean,” “not many worshippers.” An Earth-God shrine.

Street-view photo: a red shrine gate, a tiled roof, two stone lions at the entrance. A convenience store beside it. Across the way, a narrow lane. No academy of any kind. No corridor of any kind.

Lan Yingchen closed the laptop.

---

He put the letter back in its envelope and walked out to the living room. His mother was eating breakfast, and the wall's holographic news projection was running the international segment — the aftermath of a small tsunami off the coast of Xizhou three days ago, a 1500-year-old castle in Britain collapsing from abnormal underground water flow, a large tech expo in Haixie.

“Mom,” Lan Yingchen said, opening the letter and laying the sheet of paper in front of her.

His mother looked at it for about five seconds. She raised her head. “An acceptance letter? Which school did you get into?”

“The Myriad Academy.”

His mother thought for a moment. “Never heard of it. What system is it part of? Public? Private? Overseas?”

“I don't know either.”

“You don't know how you got in? Did you even apply?”

“Never applied.”

“Then how could you be accepted? Isn't this a scam?” His mother pushed the paper back toward him. “Don't pay it any mind. Throw it out.”

His mother lowered her head and went back to her breakfast.

Lan Yingchen didn't move. He waited.

About thirty seconds later, his mother looked up again.

“...what school did you just say?”

Lan Yingchen looked at her.

“The Myriad Academy,” he said.

“The Myriad — what?”

“Myriad. As in the myriad things of the world.”

His mother picked the letter up again and read it once more. “...is this what it says here? Let me see. Mm — seventeenth intake, new student, nearest entrance on Donghuan Road — and then?”

“And do you remember what this letter says?”

His mother paused. “...an acceptance letter, of course. You just showed it to me.”

“An acceptance letter from which school?”

His mother stopped for about eight seconds.

“...what school?”

Lan Yingchen watched her. His mother wasn't pretending. She was genuinely struggling to remember — her brow furrowed, her eyes rolling upward, the same look she wore when she couldn't recall the name of an acquaintance.

Except she had only just read it.

“It's nothing, Mom. I'm heading to school.”

“Wait — that acceptance letter of yours — which school?” His mother called out again behind him.

Lan Yingchen didn't turn around.

---

Morning study period.

Lan Yingchen quietly showed the letter to Chen Naiwen.

Chen Naiwen bent over it for about eight seconds. He looked up. “Whoa, the Myriad Academy? Where's that? You're amazing, man — when did you take the exam?”

“I didn't take any exam. It came to me on its own.”

“...what do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

Chen Naiwen looked at the letter again. “Yeah, it does say so. The Myriad Academy, seventeenth intake. Donghuan Road in Beigu, a shrine, a corridor. Dude, this is surreal.”

Lan Yingchen put the letter back in his bag. He said nothing. He was counting seconds.

At the twentieth second, Chen Naiwen turned his head.

“...that thing you just showed me — which school was it?”

Lan Yingchen looked at him. Chen Naiwen's face was entirely earnest. His eyes held the kind of confusion that says, I really can't remember, but I know I remembered it a second ago.

“Forget it,” Lan Yingchen said.

“...so weird. I definitely remembered it just now.” Chen Naiwen bent his head and flipped open his textbook, as if nothing had happened.

---

During the break after third period, Lan Yingchen took the letter to the staff office to find his homeroom teacher, Mr. Luo.

Mr. Luo looked at it for about twelve seconds. “This is an acceptance letter? The Myriad Academy? Never heard of it. Domestic? Overseas?”

“I don't know.”

“Accepted without applying? Are you sure it isn't a scam? I'd suggest you ask your mother first, and report it to the police if you need to. The thing you showed me, it's—” Mr. Luo bent down and looked at the letter once more. “...huh. What was it I just saw?”

“It's nothing, thank you, sir.”

Lan Yingchen left the office, stopped at the water cooler, turned the letter to its inner page, and confirmed that the name “the Myriad Academy” was still there.

Still there.

---

Noon.

Lan Yingchen returned to his seat, took the letter out again, and laid it flat on the desk.

The writing was there. Every character, including “the Myriad Academy,” was there.

He looked up at the clock. 12:38.

Jiang Wanxin had said yesterday: after noon tomorrow the letter will vanish on its own, as though it had never been sent.

12:40. The letter was there. 12:50. The letter was there. 13:05. The letter was there.

The bronze mirror in his coat's inner pocket grew hot. Far more than that morning at the mailbox. Not “faint” this time — a press against his ribs like a hand pushing down, then withdrawing.

Lan Yingchen took the mirror out and set it beside the letter on the desk.

He spread the letter open to its inner page. The ring on the back of the bronze mirror — its gap between the three- and four-o'clock marks. The ring stamp below “Inspector Jiang” — its gap between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

Two gaps, pointing the same way.

---

Lan Yingchen lowered his head and looked at the four characters of “the Myriad Academy.”

The edges of the writing floated with a very faint coppery halo. As though it had only just been printed, the ink not yet dry.

When he'd first gotten the letter at dawn, the edges of the writing had been clean. When he'd shown it to Chen Naiwen during morning study, the edges had been clean. When he'd taken it to Mr. Luo after third period, the edges had still been clean.

Now the edges had it.

Lan Yingchen reached his fingertip toward it, a centimeter away, not touching. The coppery halo followed his fingertip, faintly, the way the surface of water is grazed by wind. He moved his fingertip away. The halo followed it, then settled. He moved his fingertip back. The halo came back with it.

Lan Yingchen drew his fingertip away.

He knew this wasn't an illusion.

He didn't admit it. But he chose.

Lan Yingchen returned the bronze mirror to the inner pocket of his coat, folded the letter and slid it into the envelope, and set them together with the mirror.

---

After school, Lan Yingchen didn't go straight home.

He rode the Huanling Line four stops, from Yun'an Station to Huanling Park Station, and walked to the address written in the letter. Lane 265, Section 6, Donghuan Road.

At the mouth of the lane there was indeed a small shrine.

The characters above the shrine gate didn't read “the Myriad Academy.” They read “the Donghuan Earth-God Shrine.” A convenience store beside it, the same as in the city map's street view. Across the way, a narrow lane.

The shrine was utterly ordinary. Three old people were worshipping the Earth God. Smoke rose from the incense burner. A yellow tabby cat sat beside one of the stone lions at the gate, grooming itself; it glanced at Lan Yingchen once and went back to grooming.

Lan Yingchen stood outside the convenience store and watched for three minutes.

The shrine was perfectly normal.

---

He crossed the road and stopped at the foot of the first step without stepping up.

Three old people inside the shrine. The one nearest the gate — a white-haired old man — raised his head and glanced at Lan Yingchen.

That glance held on Lan Yingchen's face for half a second, longer than it would take to sweep over a stranger. The old man's eyes flicked toward the patch over his coat's inner pocket, then drew back; the corners of his mouth didn't move.

One second. The old man lowered his head and went on worshipping the Earth God, as if he had never looked up.

Lan Yingchen took the bronze mirror from the inner pocket of his coat and held it in his palm.

The mirror was hot. More noticeably than that noon in the classroom.

He raised his head and looked at the air above the shrine roof.

A ring drifted there. The gap fell between the three- and four-o'clock marks. About 80 meters from him.

It didn't move off. It didn't draw closer. It simply hung above the shrine roof.

Lan Yingchen looked down at the bronze mirror in his palm. The ring on its back, the gap between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

He lifted the mirror and laid it over the ring on the roof within his line of sight.

Two rings, two gaps, aligned like the needle of a luopan compass — pointing the same way, not a hair off.

---

He paused three seconds, then stepped onto the first stone step.

Before the second step he stopped.

Not out of fear. He lifted his eyes and counted the stone steps to the top, then looked into the dark that stretched back inside the shrine gate — after the second step came the third, beyond that the main hall, and the rear door behind the main hall he still couldn't see. Once his foot truly went up, the whole chain would carry him all the way to that corridor outside the rear door.

That was tomorrow's business.

He came back down the steps, turned, and returned the bronze mirror to the inner pocket of his coat, together with the letter.

He'd taken two steps when he turned to look at the ring above the shrine roof once more.

The ring hadn't moved off.

But — the gap no longer faced between the three- and four-o'clock marks.

The gap faced the direction where Lan Yingchen stood, like the needle of a compass that had found north. Recognized by something.

It had turned with him.

It knew it was him.

---

Lan Yingchen wanted to take a step back. He didn't. He lifted the bronze mirror to his palm and laid it over the ring on the roof within his line of sight.

Two gaps — the one on the roof, the one in his palm — pointing the same way, not a hair off.

The white-haired old man inside the shrine raised his head again and looked at Lan Yingchen. This time he didn't look away. His eyes held the kind of look that says I've seen you; they held for two seconds, then he gave a small nod, as if offering Lan Yingchen a slight, informal greeting.

Lan Yingchen didn't return it. He didn't know who the man was, and so couldn't.

The old man turned back to worshipping the Earth God.

Lan Yingchen backed down the steps, back toward the convenience store, and returned the bronze mirror to the inner pocket of his coat.

The ring above the shrine roof, its gap still facing him. With each step he took back, the gap turned a little further to follow.

When he reached the entrance to the station, he turned to look one last time.

The gap of the ring above the shrine roof now faced the direction of the station.

Pointing at him.

【Ch. 003 End · The Lan family mailbox in Beigu → school → before the Donghuan Earth-God Shrine】