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MidReal Story
Memory Dancer
Scenario:在2025年的苏州平江路，90后古籍修复师林绾意外发现了家族传承的“记忆装帧术”——通过修复旧物，她能读取他人失落的记忆。这项技艺，犹如触及过去的钥匙，打开了一个个尘封的痛苦与秘密。每一件修复的物品背后，都是一段被遗忘或掩埋的历史。她从修复他人的记忆开始，却逐渐陷入了自我寻找的迷局：母亲临终前的失忆，父亲离世后的空白，甚至自己生活中那些看似完美的回忆是否都是真的？
而在这个“记忆修复”的世界里，林绾并非唯一的玩家。记忆管理局和神秘的记忆黑市都在争夺对记忆的控制权。而一个名为陆砚知的记忆特派员，既是她的爱人，也是她的敌人——他掌控着修复记忆的秘密，但他却不知自己曾被植入虚假的童年记忆。一次又一次的记忆修复，能否让她找到自己失落的真相？或者，记忆的改变本身，才是无法抹去的伤痛？
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Lin Wan
first_person_protagonist, female. She is a skilled ancient book restoration expert in Suzhou, specializing in memory restoration. She is curious, determined, and nostalgic. Lin discovers her ability to read memories through objects and grapples with the weight of others' experiences. Her father's sudden death left her childhood shattered, and she struggles with the absence of her mother, who vanished soon after. As she grows older, she seeks answers about her family's past while navigating the mysterious figure of Lu Yanzhi, who holds secrets about her family's history.
Jiang Junliang
side_character, male. He is a young apprentice learning under Lin Wan's guidance in ancient book restoration. He is ambitious, eager, and impressionable. Jiang Junliang looks up to Lin Wan and is fascinated by her expertise. His innocence provides a contrast to the complex world of memory restoration and manipulation. Despite being occasionally impatient with his slower learning pace, he remains focused on mastering the craft. His presence serves as a reminder of Lin Wan’s influence on her community through teaching and mentorship.
Lu Yanzhi
protagonist, male. He is a memory envoy working for the government, tasked with retrieving and restoring memories from across China. He is reserved, conflicted, and enigmatic. Lu is deeply in love with Lin Wan, yet caught in a complex web of duty and deception. He undergos a mysterious amnesia attack, leaving him uncertain about his past relationships. He is secretly manipulating memories to protect Lin Wan from her true reality. However, he struggles with the moral implications of altering history and hides his true identity as the creator of Lin Wan's restored memories.
I still remember the day I found out I could read memories.
It was the summer of 2025, on Pingjiang Road in Suzhou.
The air was so hot you could smell the asphalt melting on the highway.
I was holding an ear of roasted corn, biting into it as I walked into my family’s ancient book restoration shop.
Suddenly, I smelled something else—the ocean, a beach at low tide, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
I’ve never been to the ocean in my life.
The farthest I’d been from Suzhou was Shanghai, and that was only once, when I was in middle school.
I didn’t know what to make of the sudden smell of salt and seaweed until I looked down and saw the small metal box in my hand.
It was made of tin or copper, with a pattern of waves and dragons etched onto its surface.
I must have picked it up by mistake when I was putting away other restored objects.
As soon as I touched it with my bare skin, the memory came flooding into me.
A little boy, playing on the beach, laughing as his father built him a sandcastle.
I rushed through the narrow hallway of our shop, the metal box still clutched in my sweaty palm.
The memories kept flickering in my mind like an old film reel.
I could hear the sound of seagulls crying overhead, feel the sand between my toes.
My footsteps echoed against the wooden floorboards as I headed toward the back room where Grandfather always sat at this hour, drinking his afternoon tea.
The scent of aging paper and wood polish grew stronger with each step.
Through the doorway, I saw him bent over his workbench, carefully examining a torn manuscript with his magnifying glass.
His weathered hands moved with practiced precision, repairing the delicate pages one stitch at a time.
Clutching the metal box, I burst into his dimly lit workroom.
The sunlight streaming in through the small window danced with the dust motes in the air.
The brass lamp on Grandfather’s workbench cast a warm glow on the scattered papers and ancient texts.
The smell of rice glue mixed with the lingering scent of salt and seaweed from the memories.
My hands were trembling as I approached him, causing the light from his desk lamp to flicker.
Grandfather didn’t look up.
He was too focused on applying the adhesive to the torn edge of a manuscript page with his calligraphy brush.
The strokes were smooth and steady, as if he were painting a picture rather than repairing an ancient text.
I placed the wave-patterned box next to his tools, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Grandfather, have you seen this before?"
Grandfather finally set down his brush and turned to examine the metal box.
His weathered hands traced the intricate patterns of waves and dragons etched onto its surface.
As soon as he touched it, the flashes of memory became more intense.
I gripped the edge of the workbench, my knuckles turning white.
The sensation was no longer just visual; I could feel the sand between my toes, the wind in my hair, and the sound of seagulls crying overhead.
It was as if I were there, on that beach, reliving the boy’s memories.
Grandfather’s expression shifted from concentration to recognition.
He reached for a hidden mechanism along the edge of the box, his fingers moving with practiced familiarity.
I leaned closer, watching intently as he manipulated the intricate grooves.
The afternoon light caught the metal’s surface, revealing previously invisible markings that seemed to dance under his touch.
"Where did you find this?" Grandfather asked, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.
"In the shop, among the restored objects," I replied, trying to keep my voice calm despite the whirlwind of sensations.
"This box belonged to your great-grandfather," he said, eyes meeting mine with a gravity that sent a shiver down my spine.
Grandfather’s weathered hands trembled slightly as he pressed the concealed latch.
The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the room, followed by a faint creak as the box opened.
A musty scent wafted out, mingling with the lingering ocean memories.
Inside, a stack of yellowed photographs lay neatly arranged.
Their edges were worn and curled, as if they had been handled countless times.
A folded piece of paper caught my eye - what appeared to be a map, its ink faded to a sepia hue.
I reached for the closest photo, but Grandfather’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with a surprising firmness.
His eyes darted to the workshop door, where footsteps echoed in the hallway.
I slide the photograph into my sleeve while Grandfather hastily closes the metal box, his weathered hands trembling.
The footsteps echo louder in the narrow hallway - deliberate, measured steps that don't match any familiar rhythm of our regular customers.
Salt air from the box's memories still lingers in my nose as I move away from Grandfather's desk, pretending to organize some loose papers.
The door handle turns with a metallic click.
Through the gap, I glimpse a man in a dark suit, his government badge catching the workshop's dim light.
My heart pounds in my chest, but I force myself to act casual, as if I'm just sorting through restoration materials.
The man's presence fills our small workshop, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor.
Grandfather slides the metal box beneath some manuscripts, his movements deliberate but tense.
The man steps closer, his badge catching the lamp light - the Memory Management Bureau's distinctive seal glares at me.
Trying to appear nonchalant despite the racing of my pulse, I gesture to the wooden stool near Grandfather's desk.
"Please, have a seat."
The man's gaze sweeps across our cluttered workbenches, his eyes lingering on the scattered manuscripts and half-restored artifacts.
He doesn't sit but remains standing, his posture rigid.
The brass lamp above us casts a warm glow, reflecting off the polished leather of his shoes.
My own reflection stares back at me - my dark hair pulled into a messy bun, my eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
I can feel the hidden photograph burning against my forearm, its presence a secret I dare not reveal.
Forcing myself to maintain steady eye contact, I ask, "How may we assist you? Are you interested in having something restored?"
My voice comes out higher than usual, betraying my nervousness.
The man's gaze shifts from me to Grandfather, his expression unreadable.
"I'm looking for someone with expertise in restoration," he says finally, his voice low and measured.
"Perhaps you could help me with a project."
Grandfather nods slowly, his eyes never leaving the man's face.
"We've worked on various projects over the years. What do you have in mind?" The man pulls out a small leather notebook from his pocket and flips through its pages.
As he moves closer to Grandfather's desk, I catch a whiff of ocean air clinging to him - the same scent that lingers on the photograph hidden in my sleeve.
My stomach clenches with unease as I wonder if he can smell it too.
The man stops at a page filled with notes written in precise handwriting.
"I'm looking for someone who can restore an artifact from the past," he says, his voice steady and controlled.
"Something that holds significant historical value."
Grandfather leans forward slightly, his interest piqued.
"That sounds like a fascinating project. What kind of artifact are we talking about?"
The man's badge catches the light again as he slowly pulls out a small photograph from his notebook.