The Static Hour #7

The night rain hammered against the rusted wire fence, the dripping sounds grating in the deep darkness.

Puddles spread across the muddy path, reflecting distorted, fragmented light, as if time itself had disintegrated here, abandoned in the silent, rainy night.

This place was drastically different from the outside world.

In the town, there were lights even at midnight. Here, darkness swallowed everything, the air was stagnant, and the silence was suffocating.

In the town, the streets were empty at night. Here, figures of different colors and ethnicities moved through the ruins, wandering silently among the debris.

Their presence was incongruous, like they had been cast out here from various worlds. They seemed unaware of each other, yet shared the same, quiet resignation.

There was no flow of time here, only the remnants of things forgotten.

This place did not belong to the town, nor to any known reality—

It was like a heresy abandoned by the world, or a corner misplaced by time.

A space that should not exist.

Yongkang felt as if he had stepped into a post-apocalyptic ruin—the silence and desolation here surpassed his imagination.

He looked around, trying to find the old man, only to discover he was already gone, as if he had never existed, leaving Yongkang alone in this desolate place.

Scattered before him were tents—

Worn and rudimentary, they stood like forgotten islands in the ruins.

Faint candlelight and flashlight beams shone from inside the tents, like wispy, flickering will-o'-the-wisps in the darkness, illuminating the figures wandering among the debris.

A bonfire flickered, its dim, yellow light reflecting on the faces of the scavengers—dark shapes hidden in the tent shadows, silently sizing up the intruder.

The wind and rain swallowed their low conversations, leaving only fragmented, blurred whispers, as if the people here were used to not being heard by the world.

Some were crouched over piles of old books, their fingertips lightly dusting off the pages, their gazes focused, their expressions serene. Their movements were careful and precise, as if they were deciphering some forgotten code, rather than just rummaging through junk.

Yongkang suddenly noticed a detail—

All the scavengers had similar numbers tattooed on their wrists.

At first, he thought it was a personal habit or an identification mark, but when he looked closely, he discovered a strange pattern—

All the numbers were four digits, and all began with "17"—

"1722, 1738, 1701, 1718..."

The last two digits varied among individuals, though some were repeated.

Who were these people? They didn't look like vagrants; they looked more like guardians—

A group with the same brand, existing in the same past.

Yongkang's brow furrowed slightly, a growing suspicion that these numbers were connected to a truth he hadn't yet grasped.

He pulled his gaze away and looked up at the core of the refuse recycling station—the dome structure looming in the darkness.

The white dome appeared indistinctly through the rain curtain, its walls mottled, cracks spreading like cobwebs, as if it might collapse at any moment.

It looked abandoned, yet it still gave off a strange impression of continued operation, like a piece of mechanical debris forgotten by the world but still humming softly.

At the center of the structure, a Doppler radar stood silent. The white spherical radome was like a quiet eye, silently overlooking this desolate ruin.

This place had once been the town's meteorological station—

But now, it no longer monitored the weather or predicted storms. It had become a sanctuary for scavengers, and the final destination for the world's "trash."

Yongkang gazed up at the massive structure, a thought emerging in his mind—

What secrets were hidden within this derelict old weather station?

Yongkang slowly navigated through the heaps of forgotten objects until—

He stopped.

A shattered red neon sign lay quietly among the ruins.

"Lido Cinema"—a familiar, yet unsettling name.

The neon tubes were fractured and broken, the cracks like fine wounds. Rain ran down the broken casing, refracting a faint, residual light.

Even though the power had long been cut, the sign retained a kind of—past temperature.

The cinema... had it really been discarded?

Yongkang reached out, but instantly retracted his fingers—the tube was abnormally "warm."

How could this object be here?

Hours ago, it had been intact above the cinema entrance, but when he left, the sign had inexplicably vanished.

Even more unsettling—

All records related to the "Lido Cinema," whether the photograph or the name on the ticket, had seemingly been wiped clean.

What was going on?

Yet here it was, discarded in this pile of refuse.

Thoughts churned. Yongkang's brain raced, trying to find a rational explanation.

Just then, a scavenger nearby said casually, "It was just delivered today."

Yongkang spun around, staring at the man. "Today?"

The scavenger's hand paused, as if he had just realized what he said. He slowly replied:

"Yeah... brought in this morning."

"I used to go watch movies there all the time..."

Yongkang's heart lurched. His fingers unconsciously tightened.

"...Used to?"

Something was fundamentally wrong with that phrase. His mother had told him with absolute certainty—

"There has never been a cinema in this town."

But now, this scavenger claimed to have watched movies at the "Lido Cinema"?

Had the cinema truly existed? Or—had its very existence been erased?

Yongkang looked around, his gaze moving across the ruins. He was now utterly convinced that his conjecture might be correct—

This world was "deleting" what it no longer needed. And what about these scavengers?

If discarded objects ultimately ended up here, could sentient beings, with flesh, blood, will, and thought, also be "deleted" by the world?

Had they ever been recognized by the world?

Or were they also part of the world's discarded elements?

Why were they "deleted"? Was it because they knew secrets the world shouldn't know?

Or were they themselves the "variables" the world didn't want to exist?

Yongkang looked at the figures scavenging, an involuntary chill creeping up his spine. This place might hold certain truths the world preferred to keep hidden.

Rain struck the rusty metal sheets, creating a faint, muffled echo.

The scavengers meticulously sorted through the broken items, their movements mechanical and practiced, as if executing an endless routine. However, Yongkang quickly realized—this was not ordinary scavenging.

Their method of selection was too systematic, as if they were looking for specific items, rather than just random debris.

Every book, every document, was carefully examined, then cautiously placed into a dry cloth bag. Their movements were slow and precise.

These people... were not ordinary vagrants. They were more like guardians, or—adherents.

Yongkang followed the muddy path, slowly walking toward the entrance of the meteorological station.

The surroundings were dominated by rusted metal sheets and broken machine parts. The damp smell of mildew and the bitter scent of tar permeated the air, making the environment even more desolate.

As he rounded a half-collapsed wall, a faint candlelight came into view—in front of the ruined wall, countless flickering candles shimmered in the wind and rain, illuminating a group of scavengers kneeling in the mud.

They were of different races and ages, with varying skin tones, yet they were all huddled together in the heavy rain, hands clasped, whispering something—

Their voices were faint, yet carried a strange solemnity.

Rain ran down their faces, but no one wiped it away, no one noticed. Their expressions were devout, their eyes filled with fervor, as if they were performing an unshakable ritual.

Among them, an elderly woman looked up at the night sky, letting the rain wash over her wrinkled face. She was whispering a phrase over and over:

"Great 3200, we heed your revelation. Please liberate us."

Her voice was trembling and fervent, like a prayer to an invisible entity, or the anticipation of a promised fulfillment.

Yongkang's brow furrowed slightly.

'3200?'

He had never heard that number before.

A young scavenger slowly stood up among the group and spoke softly to the others, facing the rain curtain:

"The world abandoned us, but we must not lose hope. The great 3200 promised to return and liberate us."

His eyes flickered, showing a hint of hesitation, yet he forced himself to hold onto the belief— Perhaps, in his desperation, he was seeking one last solace?

Another middle-aged scavenger looked up at the gray sky, his voice shaking faintly, yet full of longing: "On the nights without rain, the great rain from beyond the world will descend." "That will be the time for us to return home."

'Return home?'—

Yongkang’s brows furrowed slightly.

Every word from this devout ritual, every utterance from these scavengers, might hold a clue.

Who was 3200? What did "liberation" mean? "Home"? Where exactly was their home?

"Yes, we must wait steadfastly for the great 3200." "For now, we must protect the civilization we have left."

The voices of the scavengers echoed softly in the rain, filled with faith and a nearly maniacal obsession.

It was as if their very existence was solely for the purpose of waiting for the moment of "liberation."

Yongkang slowly raised his head, his gaze falling on the wall in front of them— It was a strange mural, quietly covering the dilapidated surface.

Rough lines outlined a twisted tree, its branches intertwined and spreading, its roots coiled into a circle. In the center of the circle, an open flower bloomed quietly—it was less like an ordinary mural and more like a symbol, a forgotten language.

Yongkang’s heart rate sped up slightly.

'Is this the 3200 they worship? A flowering tree?'

These people shared a common belief. Their object of worship was 3200. They prayed facing this symbol, as if it were their only hope in this world of despair.

Suddenly, a soft voice sounded behind him— "Are you also looking for answers?"

Yongkang spun around.

In the rain curtain, a girl stood quietly nearby, watching him with composure. Her clothes were worn and dusty, but she lacked the usual decadence of a scavenger. Her posture was straight, her eyes clear, her expression calm.

She looked around seventeen or eighteen, her black hair draped messily over her shoulders, her face smudged with dirt. But what was utterly incongruous with this ruin was her gaze—

There was no numbness, no despair, only a kind of immensely determined will.

In this moment, Yongkang sensed she didn't belong here. She didn't look like these scavengers, nor like those silent devotees waiting for liberation.

He casually glanced at her wrist, and froze the next second—

A sequence of digits was clearly visible—"1747".

His breath hitched slightly.

"1747..."?

Where had he seen that number?

A residual image flashed from the depths of his memory—The discarded old ticket stub in the cinema, with a blurred number...

"1747"

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, assuming it was just the cinema's serial number. But now, that number was on this girl's wrist—this was no coincidence.

The girl walked over gently, her steps steady, her gaze fixed on Yongkang. Her voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable certainty: "This is our only faith." "We are all waiting—waiting for the day we are liberated."

Yongkang's breathing became shallow.

There was no hesitation in the girl's voice, no doubt, as if this were the inevitable end of their fate—everything they did, everything they believed in, was solely for the sake of waiting for "liberation."

But what exactly were they waiting for? Liberation from what constraint? From this cruel world? Or from someone? Some social mechanism?

Or perhaps—from a higher level of control?

If this world truly had an invisible manipulator, what would their "liberation" mean?

Thoughts flooded his mind, but he found no answer.

He began to realize—the closer he got to the truth, the more complicated everything became. Every step forward only added layers of questions, trapping him in a labyrinth without an end.

Was the world hiding the truth? Or was his very existence the mistake?

Yongkang remained silent for a moment, gazing into the girl's eyes. He asked in a low voice: "3200... what is it?"

The girl looked at him quietly, then slowly raised her head. Her gaze first landed on the wall covered in symbols, then lifted over the rain curtain toward the boundless night sky.

Her voice was calm and resolute: "It is the answer from beyond the world."