Chapter 1, 4:56

As he thought of these matters, Yang Rui's heart grew increasingly troubled. He stood up and paced a few steps, the old wooden floorboards creaking underfoot, forcing him to stop. He walked to the window and casually pushed it open. The window faced north, and as soon as it opened, a gust of cold wind rushed in, causing the flame of the oil lamp to flicker violently, as if it were dancing wildly. The night outside was deepening, with no moon in the sky, and the stars shone exceptionally bright, reminiscent of the times he had gone to the valley to gather fruit; in the distance, the lights were dazzling. If the position had not changed while crossing over, that should be Nanjing Road, but no, according to old movies, it was called the Main Street. At this moment, there were few pedestrians on the street below, and the unicycles seen during the day were also scarce. Occasionally, there were calls tinged with dialect, likely parents calling their children home. Going home, going home, sigh, can I still go home? I suppose I should just focus on living well for now.

In the pawnshop, there stood a tall, green wooden counter, on which were placed some account books, writing brushes, ink stones, and abacuses. As closing time approached, there were few customers in the shop, and several attendants were either sitting or standing behind the counter. When a foreigner entered, one of the attendants immediately perked up, straightened his posture, and greeted him. Unfortunately, Yang Rui did not understand what was said, so he could only smile at the attendant, who had a small hat on his head, a dark face, and yellow teeth. He then handed over the gold chain he was holding through the wooden counter. The attendant took it, examined it closely in the light, tested its hardness with his teeth, and finally pulled out a small scale from somewhere to weigh it. Afterward, he said: "A gold chain, worth seven dollars in cash, is that acceptable?"

Yang Rui heard that he was not speaking the Shanghai dialect, but rather seemed to have an accent from Zhejiang, and he did not understand it at first. He vaguely heard something that sounded like 'seven', but fortunately, the servant repeated it, and he finally understood, gesturing: 'Seven yuan is too little, at least ten yuan'

... ...

One must also be prepared for the possibility of not being able to return. Currently, I only have 7.49 yuan, with accommodation costing 3.05 yuan and dinner consisting of shredded meat costing 0.60 yuan. This means I need to spend at least 0.53 yuan each day, and if I calculate it at 0.60 yuan per day, I can still get by for 12 days. It would be best to find a job, but what can I do? I am just a fruit vendor. Although I studied business in university, is it useful in this era? If I had studied engineering or science, the situation would be different. My English is at level 4, but my spoken skills are poor. I studied German for a year and can manage simple conversations. However, who would hire someone for a clerical position without a degree, identity, or guarantee? It is said that in this era, even apprentices need someone to vouch for them. It would be best to find a job, but what can I do? I am just a fruit vendor. Although I studied business in university, is it useful in this era? If I had studied engineering or science, the situation would be different. My English is at level 4, but my spoken skills are poor. I studied German for a year and can manage simple conversations. However, who would hire someone for a clerical position without a degree, identity, or guarantee? It is said that in this era, even apprentices need someone to vouch for them.

What else does he have? A laptop, two mobile phones—his frequent calls necessitate carrying two phones, a camera, several samples of oranges, an electronic scale, a sugar meter, and fruit cards. The rest consists of clothes. There is also a suitcase filled with items used during university, a hodgepodge of things, most of which are textbooks—these have been stored at a classmate's house since leaving Shanghai, and he intends to take them back home this time. These items are either not worth taking out or are of little value; the only valuable item is the laptop and mobile phone, but where is the electricity here? To have power, he would have to wait at least until the year of the Xinhai Revolution. The mobile phone has power, but the laptop's battery is nearly depleted—last night he fell asleep holding the laptop because the power connector is on the side of the laptop. To place it sideways on the bed, he unplugged the power cord, and then he fell asleep without shutting down the laptop, naturally draining the battery. These items are only valuable if they have power; if they are out of power, they are just plastic shells. Who would want such things? The mobile phone has power, but the laptop's battery is nearly depleted—last night he fell asleep holding the laptop because the power connector is on the side of the laptop. To place it sideways on the bed, he unplugged the power cord, and then he fell asleep without shutting down the laptop, naturally draining the battery. These items are only valuable if they have power; if they are out of power, they are just plastic shells. Who would want such things?

His Mandarin was quite understandable at first glance. After a pause, he spoke in a slightly altered Beijing dialect, saying: "This esteemed gentleman, at most 8 pieces, can last for 3 months." After saying this, he placed the chain on the wooden platform

Identity is a significant issue; without an identity, there is no job, and without a job, one cannot await the day of return. Of course, it is also possible that one may never return at all. Identity requires the fabrication of a plausible persona, such as mhetushu.com. As he pondered, he gathered all items marked with dates not belonging to the present time: train tickets, invoices, Renminbi, the last pages and prefaces of university textbooks with publication dates, and burned them all. He kept his identity card, but the text on it was scratched off, just in case he could still use electronic card reading upon return. He modified the time on his phone and set a password. He thought, even if I have nothing to prove my identity, there is certainly nothing that can deny it.

A legitimate job seems hopeless for the time being, and I am not capable of engaging in illegal activities. I am neither a spy nor a special forces operative, lacking the strength to commit robbery. My understanding of historical events is also limited, making it impossible to deceive anyone by exploiting historical loopholes. Sigh, I can't just resort to pulling carts and carrying sacks; my head is starting to ache.

After all the commotion, it was already 9 PM. Yang Rui lay diagonally on the bed, feeling that everything that had happened during the day was truly overwhelming and exhausting. The dry scent of straw and the softness of the bedding allowed his tense body and mind to relax immediately. He fell onto the bed, and soon drowsiness overtook him, leading him to fall asleep quickly. That night, he had a dream: he dreamt of a vast square filled with people, a dense crowd that seemed endless. At the head of the square stood a grand ancient city tower, adorned with a red carpet and also filled with people. Under the eaves hung a row of large red lanterns. A tall figure stood at the forefront, seemingly speaking, but his words could not be heard. As soon as he finished speaking, the square erupted into a frenzy, with cheers and the waving of flags, as if the very heavens and earth were trembling. At this point in the dream, a smile appeared on Yang Rui's face, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Yang Rui realized that this was the highest price the other party was willing to offer. Looking at the size of the pawnshop and the attitude of the attendant, he felt that this chain might only be worth eight yuan in this place. Moreover, it was getting late, and without any money on him, where else could he go? He nodded in agreement.

In a small inn in the Shanghai concession during the late autumn of 1902, under the light of a kerosene lamp, Yang Rui's mind gradually calmed down. He began to organize his thoughts, sketching in his notebook, contemplating what to do next

Like all time-travel stories, ours also began in an unknown manner

The pawnbroker immediately took a piece of yellow paper, wielded his brush with vigor, and while writing, sang aloud: "A gold chain worth one piece, interest at eight dollars, monthly interest at one dime and five cents, storage fee at four cents, with a redemption period of three full months." After finishing, he handed one of the yellow papers to Yang Rui. Meanwhile, on the other side of the wooden platform, an accountant clicked the abacus, and the sound of coins clinking was heard as eight dollars were tossed onto the table. Yang Rui took the dollars without a word, his gaze fixed intently on the yellow paper—this was a pawn ticket—dated in the lower left corner: the 20th day of the 9th month in the 28th year of Guangxu.

He walked through the alley over a hundred times, yet still could not find his way back. Finally, he grew tired, clutching his phone, sitting at the mouth of the alley, his mind in a state of chaos. This cannot be real, he thought. Wasn't it said that time travel should involve lightning strikes, floods, or at the very least, fog? But now there was nothing; he had just answered a phone call and then arrived here. Moreover, those who traveled through time were either spies or special forces; if not, they held a doctorate in a technical field; or they were revolutionaries well-versed in how to revolutionize and struggle. In any case, they were all capable individuals, bringing with them various miracles and retaining historical details, while he was merely a fruit vendor. What was he doing here? Selling fruit? Yang Rui thought aimlessly, while the slanting evening sun and his hungry stomach reminded him that he should face reality. Finally, he stood up; he still needed to find a place to stay, he murmured to himself.

He stood up, adjusted his bag, pulled his suitcase, casually chose a direction, and walked past those in long robes and braids. After walking for a while, he hurriedly turned back to the alley entrance, looked around, but did not see any door numbers. All he saw was the sign above the alley entrance and the bookstore with the traditional characters "如意里". I will come back, he told himself in his heart

Yang Rui sat on a hand-pulled cart, weakly leaning against the wall at the entrance of the alley, his gaze lingering deep within the alley, dim and shadowy. Even until now, he still did not know what had happened, or rather, how it had all come to be. He distinctly remembered just coming out of the East China headquarters of Walmart—where the buyer had politely declined him—hastily preparing to take the subway to the train station, when he received a phone call. The noise from the roadside inadvertently led him into this alley. However, after the call ended, stepping out of the alley felt wrong; the streets filled with banners and the sight of long robes and braids made him realize that this was not the world he once knew.

The streets are not very wide, resembling the narrow paths of an old city, devoid of tall buildings, flanked by two- or three-story wooden houses adorned with various fabric signs, all featuring vertical traditional characters, some of which he recognizes and some he does not; scattered pedestrians traverse the road, some in long robes, others in short jackets, all sporting braids; occasionally, a few chicken carts rush by, piled high with goods or filled with people, the drivers pushing vigorously, sweating profusely, their labored breaths gradually fading into the distance; what astonishes him the most is that he can see several foreign riders in the distance, clad in military attire on white horses, striding proudly through the intersection ahead. This cannot be in the concession, Yang Rui thought, as it seemed that the area he had previously visited was the original concession. Oh my God! He has somehow crossed into the concession, but what year is it now, is it 18 something or 19 something? He really wants to grab someone and ask, but then he remembers that he is a person without an identity, and he does not dare to inquire, nor does he know how to ask, who should he ask who the emperor is or what year it is now? Can he even understand the accent? He thinks as he walks, moving quickly. When he passes a pawnshop, he stops, pulls the chain from around his neck, and then walks inside.

What era is the twenty-eighth year of Guangxu? Yang Rui only remembers that the twentieth year of Guangxu was the year of the First Sino-Japanese War. Adding four years to 189, it is now 1902, and in another nine years, the Xinhai Revolution will occur, leading to the fall of the Qing Dynasty. Coming back to his senses, he suppressed his trembling voice caused by excitement and fear and asked the attendant, "May I ask where there is an inn, a guesthouse?" Due to his excitement, he repeated the question twice before the other party understood.

Whether I can go back is uncertain. I vaguely remember that when I received the call in the afternoon, I was walking back and forth in the alley, and then the phone suddenly disconnected. It seemed as if there was a bright light at the corner of my eye, and afterwards, the phone lost signal, leaving only the scene as it was after I arrived. Did I trigger something that caused the time travel, or did I encounter something that led to it? Can the former be triggered again, and can the latter be encountered again? Ultimately, did I trigger something that caused the time travel, or did I encounter something that led to it? Can the former be triggered again, and can the latter be encountered again? Perhaps I can never go back, but I still need to walk in that alley every day, right at the time of the time travel—4:56 PM—the time recorded in my phone call log.

The inn is somewhat tucked away in a small alley, and the sign is not visible in the dark. The facade is not large, and there are not many rooms. However, the owner is quite hospitable, and there is a noodle shop next door where one can eat. Considering that it might be difficult to find another place to stay if I leave, I decided to stay here. I was assigned a single room on the second floor, but there is no bathroom. The owner mentioned that the outhouse is located on the west side of the courtyard downstairs. For larger needs, one must go to the outhouse, while for smaller needs, there is a chamber pot in the room. There is no shower available, but the owner said there is a bathhouse across the street. The room is tidy, and the quilt provided by the inn, which costs an extra five cents, is also very clean. However, there is always an uncomfortable smell of rotten wood in the room. After the attendant—presumably the owner's wife—made the bed and lit the kerosene lamp before leaving, Yang Rui stood at the door without entering. The dark corridor, the dim room, the flickering light, and the creaking sound of the floorboards made him think to himself, could this be a scene from "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio"?

The steward shook his head, but the accountant who was paying said to walk right for more than two miles. After leaving the pawnshop, Yang Rui finally found a place to settle down shortly after dark