Chapter 1: “A Thick Fog That Day”

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On that fateful day, a thick fog enveloped the world beyond the apartment’s windowpane, dense and sorrowful, as if it were a sentient being trapped in perpetual despair. It engulfed everything it touched, allowing only a faint, ghostly light to pierce through its cold clutches—an eerie light that bathed the room in an otherworldly twilight. The room seemed divided: one half barely visible under the dim, spectral illumination, the other half swallowed by deep, foreboding shadows.

In the dimness of this surreal, oppressive apartment, Zhou Ming sat amidst chaos. With hurried, almost frantic movements, he had pushed aside the clutter on his desk to focus on a single task—writing. Lines of exhaustion etched deeply into his face revealed a soul overwhelmed by fatigue. In a weary rasp, his voice echoed, “Day seven. The fog smothers the world outside, turning my window into a blind eye, covered by some malevolent force. I am trapped here, like a solitary ship adrift in an ocean of mist and darkness…”

“I am cut off from the outside—deprived of communication, water, electricity. Yet, inexplicably, the lights flicker, and the computer buzzes as if driven by some ghostly energy…”

A whisper, so faint it could have been mistaken for the dying breath of the wind, came from near the window. Zhou Ming straightened slightly, a fleeting spark of hope lighting up his tired eyes. However, that light quickly faded, extinguished by the realization that it was only an illusion, a deceit conjured by his desperate mind. Outside the glass, the world remained a disturbing emptiness, unresponsive as the fog sealed off his limited space with frigid indifference.

His gaze drifted to the windowsill where a wrench and hammer lay abandoned, once used in a burst of futile resistance, now motionless, silent testaments to his relentless confinement.

Refocusing, Zhou Ming turned his attention back to his journal, his pen scratching against the paper as if to etch his own legend. “I am trapped. I have tried everything—breaking through the roof, dismantling the walls, ripping up the floor—yet all efforts have proved useless. I remain encased within an impenetrable box, my room a prison from which the key has been irrevocably lost… except for that solitary door.”

“And the mystery that lies beyond that door… is a riddle shrouded in darkness.”

The silence thickened as Zhou Ming contemplated the words he had committed to the prison of paper beneath his fingers. Aimlessly, he flipped through the previous entries in his journal, his gaze sliding over the ink-stained record of his despair, meaningless musings, frustrated sketches, and forced jokes that now seemed empty and hollow.

He pondered the pointlessness of documenting this bewildering ordeal, wondering who—if anyone—would ever read these fragmented thoughts. Journaling had never been a refuge for Zhou Ming. Busy with the demands of being a middle school teacher, he had seldom found time for such reflective activities.

But now, time stretched before him like an endless chasm—once a precious commodity, now a burdensome curse.

That dreadful morning when he awoke to find himself imprisoned within his own home felt like a lifetime ago, yet the gloomy fog outside his window remained a constant reminder of his changed reality. It was as if the entire world had stopped, frozen in an everlasting dusk. His room existed in perpetual twilight, unaffected by day or night. His windows had become opaque barriers; utilities were mysteriously disabled; his phone, a useless artifact; and his desperate cries for help were absorbed by the malevolent fog outside.

His situation resembled a nightmarish dream—except Zhou Ming had painfully realized that he was not caught in a nocturnal fantasy. He was an unwilling resident of an alternate, eerie world that defied logical explanation—a conscious prisoner in a reality distorted beyond recognition.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, his eyes finally settled on the plain, economical white door at the end of the room.

It was a simple door, still displaying an outdated calendar he had never bothered to replace. The doorknob shone from frequent use, while the doormat lay askew, untouched by new footprints for days.

The door could open… and that was perhaps its most cruel aspect. It offered the illusion of freedom, whispering promises of escape—yet the world that awaited him on the other side was not the one he longed for. There was no welcoming hallway, no bustling streets bathed in sunlight, no comforting presence of the life he once knew.

Instead, beyond lay an unsettling, alien expanse—a ‘space’ as impenetrable and mysterious as the cell he was already confined within.

The luxury of contemplation was a mockery in his situation. Choice seemed a hollow concept, a cruel joke in his dire circumstances. His dwindling supplies were a stark reminder of his grim reality—only a quarter of his bottled water stash remained. With every possible escape route from this confining room exhausted, his last sliver of hope resided beyond that eerie doorway.

Gathering the remnants of his courage, Zhou Ming knew he had no choice but to cling to that fragile thread of hope and venture beyond the ‘door’—into the daunting unknown that offered no guarantee of safety yet held his last desperate chance for freedom.

Perhaps, within the unsettling unknown that awaited him, some form of understanding might emerge—an answer, however elusive, to this haunting supernatural mystery.

Drawing a deep, measured breath like a man facing his final judgment, Zhou Ming bent to scribble the last words into his increasingly sorrowful journal. “…My only remaining option is to brave that daunting doorway. I’ve gathered what scant supplies I could from the other side; my preparations, basic as they are, must suffice for survival.”

“To anyone who might discover this journal—if I fail to return and someone, whether a search party or an accidental visitor, finds this sealed-off room—know that this is not a fanciful story. These perplexing events truly trapped a man named Zhou Ming within an inexplicable spatial-temporal anomaly.”

“I have meticulously recorded every oddity, every failed escape attempt. Should anyone find this journal in the future, I implore you, remember my name and bear witness that this baffling ordeal was not merely a delusion.”

Closing his journal with a sense of finality, Zhou Ming set down his pen and slowly stood up. It was a crucial moment, a time to act before the trap of despair and inactivity could completely engulf him.

Instead of heading straight for the taunting, solitary door that led to the “outside,” he veered toward his bed. If he was to face the alien realm beyond, he needed to be mentally prepared, a state far removed from his current weakened condition.

Sleep might not come, but even the act of lying down, attempting to clear his frazzled mind, was better than stepping into the unknown in his current depleted state.

Eight hours later, Zhou Ming awoke, finding the room still submerged in its perennial twilight, the oppressive atmosphere maintained by the relentless fog outside.

Ignoring the bleak scene outside his window, Zhou Ming rationed a small portion of his dwindling food supply, eating just enough to quell his hunger. He then approached the full-length mirror tucked in a corner of the room.

The man staring back at him was unkempt, his features utterly ordinary—yet he studied his reflection as if trying to imprint it into his memory, a last act of self-affirmation before stepping into the uncertain.

After a prolonged moment of silent contemplation, he whispered to his mirrored image, affirming an identity he feared he might lose: “You are Zhou Ming. In this world, whatever it is, you remain Zhou Ming. Hold onto that.”

Then, with a solemn demeanor, he turned away from the mirror to face his inevitable destination.

Approaching the vexing door, the sole barrier between him and the mysterious beyond, Zhou Ming took another deep breath, letting his hand rest momentarily on the cool doorknob.

He carried nothing—no supplies, no means of defense. His past attempts to enter the mysterious world beyond this door had taught him a harsh lesson: that he could bring nothing through with him—not even, it seemed, a consistent sense of self.

Cautiously, he turned the knob, and with tentative care, pushed the door slightly open. Before him spread a tumultuous sea of swirling grey-black mist, its dense curtain resembling a grim shroud. Within the shifting fog, the faint sound of what seemed like ocean waves called to him.

Stepping over the threshold and into the mist, he was met by an unexpected scent—the subtle, salty smell of the open sea. The phantom sound of waves began to solidify into clear auditory signals, accompanied by the sensation of the floor gently swaying beneath his feet. His senses momentarily overwhelmed by this disorienting mix, Zhou Ming blinked and found himself standing on a vast, deserted wooden deck.

Above him, the sky loomed ominously, filled with dark, threatening clouds interwoven with towering ship masts. Beyond the railing stretched an infinite ocean, its surface eerily still yet subtly rippling.

Looking down at himself, Zhou Ming noticed his body had inexplicably changed, transformed into a sturdier, more robust version of his former self. He was clad in a finely tailored, resplendent sea captain’s uniform that he had never owned before. His hands, now tougher and more calloused, showed pronounced, chiseled knuckles. In one hand, he held an ornate flintlock pistol, its design ancient yet impeccably crafted.

Indeed, his very sense of “self”—that most fundamental aspect of human existence—was now in question, plunged into doubt as he navigated this surreal landscape. As if his identity, like everything else in this haunting, implausible reality, was subject to the capricious whims of an ever-shifting world.

 

 

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