Time and Space
Staring at the phone on the bed, which kept vibrating from WeChat messages, Su Zesui’s body trembled slightly. He sat there, eyes unfocused, for quite a while before finally picking it up again. Hands shaking, he tapped on “Voice Call.”
He couldn’t send messages anymore. But he still wanted to know more.
With a cheerful ringtone, the other side picked up. “Hello? Did you fall asleep mid-chat? It’s been over half an hour already. Hello? Are we connected? …Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Su Zesui was very socially anxious. His soft lips opened and closed a few times before he finally forced out two words: “Brother…”
The boy’s voice was thin and mosquito-like, yet it still carried a tremor. Gong Chuang immediately sensed something was wrong. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. Your brother might not be in the lab right now, but I’m sure he’s just tied up with something else!”
Seeing that the boy had calmed down a little, Gong Chuang kept coaxing him. “He’s a busy man, you know. Usually at night you can’t even catch a glimpse of him. Only after you moved in did he start turning down all sorts of banquets just so he could stay home with you. This time, he probably couldn’t refuse, and didn’t want you to worry, so he told you he was at the lab instead.”
Su Zesui’s eyes drooped. His pale, slender fingers traced little circles on the bedsheet. He gave a muffled “Mm” and fell silent again.
Still, he kept the phone pressed to his ear, showing no sign of hanging up.
After a moment’s thought, Gong Chuang said, “Remember what your brother told you before about Hilbert space?”
Of course Su Zesui remembered—he’d even gone back and looked it up.
Hilbert space: a mathematical tool used to describe the states of quantum systems.
It can explain why microscopic particles change state before and after observation, yet macroscopic objects—like the moon—don’t vanish simply because a human looked away.
That’s because macroscopic objects are made up of an enormous number of microscopic particles, and in Hilbert space, the degrees of freedom are so high they remain extremely stable.
At the same time, Hilbert space also points to the possibility of parallel universes.
It suggests that every quantum event observed causes the universe to split into two parallel universes. In one, the particle passes through the left slit; in the other, it passes through the right slit.
Scaling this to the macroscopic level means that someone who is unimaginably wealthy in one universe could be penniless in another.
Likewise, someone who lost their parents young and suffered the loss of relatives one after another could, in another universe, have a happy, intact family. Just like… Su Zesui himself.
Su Zesui suspected that during the lab explosion, he had accidentally crossed into a parallel universe.
It was a bizarre thought—but that was its saving grace. No one would suspect him or think he was some sort of monster to be captured and studied. In this happy universe, he could just be an ordinary person, living an unremarkable life.
Thank goodness, he thought, this world isn’t some ultra-high-tech society.
“I’ve got good news for you,” Gong Chuang said. “Last time you were so interested in this topic—were you hoping to time travel?”
Su Zesui shook his head, but the other person couldn’t see him. Gong Chuang went on excitedly, “Last time, Gu Yilan didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you getting unrealistic hopes.
But actually, their experiment made a huge breakthrough. They’ve even managed to detect the existence of parallel universes, and now they’re trying to manipulate certain boundary conditions in quantum field theory.
Maybe one day in the future, you really will be able to pass through a ‘gate’ or ‘tunnel’ into another universe.”
When the oy didn’t respond, Gong Chuang prompted him, “Isn’t that exciting?”
Su Zesui was so “excited” his fingers froze. The phone slipped from his ear, tumbled, and landed on the bed.
. . . . .
Gu Yilan returned to his car just as the lab was closing for the night. He drove at top speed back to the villa.
The master bedroom light was on. Pushing the door open, he found Su Zesui sprawled bonelessly on the bed, a thin blanket pulled from his feet all the way over his head.
“Not suffocating in there?” Gu Yilan stepped forward and pulled back a corner of the blanket—only to see a head of messy hair buried in the pillow.
Su Zesui shrank down further, unusually quiet.
“Did you shower yet?” Gu Yilan asked.
From under the covers, Su Zesui shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” Gu Yilan frowned at the boy curled up like a silkworm cocoon.
Su Zesui felt very distressed, choking back tears and afraid to speak.
His whole body was icy cold, his clothes damp with cold sweat. Yet he didn’t dare curl up or hug himself, afraid that any movement might make this world vanish.
Everything and everyone in this world was original, following fixed physical laws. Only he was the anomaly—crossed over from another world—and didn’t belong here.
And Gu Yilan, with his mastery of cutting-edge science, felt like someone wearing holographic glasses that could see through everything, able to scrutinize every macroscopic object with precision.
In front of him, Su Zesui felt utterly exposed—one careless move, and his identity as a “monster” might be revealed, and he’d be expelled from this world.
He could feel that intense, inescapable gaze on him, quietly studying him, and had no idea what the man was thinking.
Finally, unable to bear it, he mumbled from under the covers, “I… I don’t want to go to school.”
He used to find physics experiments really interesting, but now he felt scared. He even had the strange feeling that those advanced physics instruments were somehow studying him.
…He didn’t want to leave his parents and brother behind, and he didn’t want to be sent back to his original world.
To his surprise, Gu Yilan—who was usually strict and unyielding—did not insist this time. Instead, he spoke softly, “You’ll rest at home tomorrow.”
Su Zesui didn’t move. Only after the man went to the bathroom did he cautiously stretch his hand out from under the covers, find his phone, and shakily type:
[(o^^o): Brother, can I not go anymore from now on?]
[(o^^o): I’ve finished showering. I’m going to sleep now.]
When Gu Yilan came out of the shower, he saw those two messages on WeChat and the boy curled up under the blanket.
Only a strand of black hair was exposed to the air; the thin blanket rose and fell gently with his steady breathing.
Gu Yilan stepped forward, softened his movements, and pulled the thin blanket down a little.
The boy was already asleep, his delicate face flushed and rosy like an apple from being tucked in. But his eyes weren’t red or swollen, so it seemed he hadn’t cried.
Gu Yilan dimmed the room’s lights, sat on the other side of the bed, and flipped through the files on his tablet.
The next morning, he didn’t wake the sleeping boy but got up and went to University A by himself.
As soon as he arrived at the lab, Gong Chuang approached and spoke to him, “Where did you go last night? He found out you weren’t in the lab.”
“Hm.” Gu Yilan guessed why.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Aren’t you going to explain?” Gong Chuang looked incredulous.
“The facts are exactly what you saw,” Gu Yilan said. “There’s nothing to explain.”
Gong Chuang was stunned and muttered quietly, “It’s rare to see someone like you get married.”
Watching Gu Yilan calmly record the experiment data, Gong Chuang couldn’t help but ask again, “He called me on a voice call last night. He seemed really upset. Did you comfort him after you got home?”
Gu Yilan’s pen paused for a moment, then he continued writing on the report without a word: “No.”
“You…” Gong Chuang twitched at the corner of his mouth, unsure how to scold him, so he just pulled out his phone and showed Gu Yilan a WeChat message from ten minutes ago—
[(o^^o): Brother Gong Chuang, what are you and Brother doing?]
“I haven’t replied yet. How about I kindly give you this precious chance?” Gong Chuang said.
He guessed that someone as possessive as Gu Yilan wouldn’t stand his little guy calling him late at night and messaging him early in the morning.
Sure enough, Gu Yilan expressionlessly tossed the finished experiment report onto the desk, his face cold and grim, clearly annoyed, then left the lab without looking back, saying only: “You go.”
Gong Chuang: ?
He guessed that Gu Yilan had probably gone straight to his office to confront Su Zesui in person, because although he replied to Su Zesui’s message, the boy hadn’t sent anything else after that.
He thought this until noon, when he ran into Gu Yilan at the school cafeteria entrance.
The man had no clingy little shadow following him, nor was he carrying a packed meal for the boy.
“Is he not eating?” Gong Chuang asked in surprise.
Gu Yilan didn’t stop walking and brushed past him, “He didn’t come.”
“Ah?”
Gong Chuang didn’t know what had happened between Gu Yilan and Su Zesui, but he sensed a storm brewing.
Gu Yilan was acting strange—and Su Zesui even more so.
In the following two days, Su Zesui didn’t come to school at all. Every morning, there would be a message from him asking what Gu Yilan and Gong Chuang were doing, and then he would disappear again.
Gong Chuang sensed something was wrong, and naturally, Gu Yilan—who lived with Su Zesui—had noticed it much earlier.
At 7:30 in the morning, he put a strawberry cupcake into the fridge and said to the butler standing nearby, “Give this to him after he finishes eating.”
The butler hesitated, then said, “Maybe you should give it to the little master yourself. It might lift his spirits a bit. Lately, he hasn’t been himself—he’s lost his appetite. He takes just a few bites and then stops eating.”
Gu Yilan stared silently at the cute little cupcake inside the fridge. After a moment, he said, “Have the servants make some of his favorite dishes. Sweet and sour pork ribs, something like that.”
“We’ve tried that already. It didn’t help,” the butler said, pounding his chest in frustration. “The little master is already thin. I’m really worried that if this continues, his health will suffer.”
Gu Yilan lowered his eyes, hiding the emotions swirling inside.
Because the fridge door had been left open too long, it began beeping, breaking the silence.
Gu Yilan snapped the fridge door shut and said firmly, “Make sure he eats properly. Whatever he wants, try to satisfy him.”
. . . . .
On the way to University A, Gu Yilan frowned deeply, speeding the car up until the GPS repeatedly warned, “You are overspeeding.”
When he reached the 10th floor of the lab building, his first instinct was to head straight to his own office.
In the past, he would always go to the lab first—open the door, prepare the instruments that needed warming up, exchange a few words with his team—and only then go to the office to get the experiment report.
But at some unknown point, this routine had been completely changed because of one person.
Yesterday at noon, when he was somewhat distracted, he even packed a meal at the cafeteria.
Only after leaving the cafeteria did he realize the takeaway bag in his hand was now for no one to eat.
Gu Yilan stopped walking, took out his phone, and opened a certain website.
He hadn’t checked this heart rate monitoring site in a long time, but the boy had faithfully worn the heart rate bracelet on his wrist all along.
Through the continuous data on the site, he saw the boy’s heart rate curve—
It was steadily dropping.
And for the past few days, it had stayed at an “extremely low” emotional heart rate level.
Gu Yilan’s eyes flickered as he stared at the very low heart rate curve, unconsciously grinding his back teeth.
He exited the site and glanced through a collection of bookmarked sites.
By some strange chance, the very first one on top—the most recently compiled URL—seemed to have a magical pull, quickly capturing all his attention.
Gu Yilan hesitated for a few seconds, then tapped into that site.
The page loaded with a spinning progress bar, then lines of synced voice recorder files began streaming in.
He had always labeled the previous recordings the boy gave him, but the newest ones, with garbled names, were recordings made just a few days ago.
The loading progress kept spinning.
One recording, two, three… ten, twenty, thirty, finally stopping at fifty-seven.
These new recordings started off very short—just a few seconds. As the number increased, the length of each recording gradually got longer.
But even the latest one was still only a rough draft.
Su Zesui liked to delete all earlier drafts after successfully completing a perfect recording.
So Gu Yilan never knew how many times the boy had to practice and record before handing him a final one that lasted more than a minute.
His fingers gripping the phone turned white from tension.
. . . . .
Su Zesui himself had been drifting through these days in a haze.
He got up, ate, and rested like a zombie, sleeping more than fifteen hours a day, leaving his little head foggy and dull.
He was afraid this world would suddenly expel him as an outsider, so he was very concerned about Mr. Gu’s experiment progress.
During moments of anxiety, he would suddenly relax—maybe Mr. Gu would never discover that he was a time traveler?
But that thought always flashed briefly before he sank back into endless emptiness and inner turmoil.
He felt guilty, avoided talking to Mr. Gu, even hid from him, pretending to be asleep every night before Mr. Gu returned to the master bedroom.
He occasionally sent him messages on his phone, deceiving himself into maintaining the illusion that nothing had happened.
In fact, Mr. Gu had rarely spoken to him these days either.
This gave Su Zesui the illusion that Mr. Gu was drifting farther away, slowly moving into opposition—someone who one day in the future would stand for justice and arrest him as a disruptor of time and space.
Su Zesui felt terrified by this, yet powerless to change it.
That night, he saw Mr. Gu’s car return from afar by the master bedroom window and quickly shrank back under the covers, trying to survive by avoidance.
How long could he keep this up? He didn’t know.
Soon after, the door opened. The first thing Mr. Gu did upon entering was to replace the glaring white light with a soft orange glow.
Su Zesui listened carefully under the covers, hearing the man set his tablet on the bedside table, then start moving around the room.
The next moment, the blanket covering Su Zesui’s face was gently lifted.
Su Zesui: !
The soft light wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t enough to clearly illuminate the handsome features and complex expression of the man before him.
Su Zesui hadn’t yet reacted, staring wide-eyed and helplessly at the man in front of him, instinctively trying to pull the blanket back up.
——Had the time-space police discovered him? Were they here to arrest him?
While he was lost in these thoughts, Gu Yilan waved two tickets in front of him.
“There’s a musical at the neighboring university tomorrow. Want to go watch it with me?” Gu Yilan asked.