Lin Wanzhao stood in front of the rusted iron gate, palms sweating.
She hadn't brought an umbrella.
But then again, she didn't need one—not really. It wasn't the rain she feared. It was a memory.
The wind made the corrugated metal roof creak like old dolly tracks groaning under camera weight.
She remembered that sound. Back then, when the camera rolled, everyone had to be quiet. Except her. She'd cry the loudest—not because it hurt, but because no one would look.
"You sure you wanna go in?" she asked herself, voice soft, like coaxing a kid who didn't want to face school.
No one answered. But she already knew.
She pushed.
Inside, the darkness swallowed light.
Sunlight sliced through cracked tiles, illuminating dust motes drifting like snow in a scratched film reel. Every step she took groaned underfoot, as if the floor itself was warning her: Why are you back? Didn't you run?
She hadn't run.
She'd been chased.
She flicked on her phone flashlight.
The beam swept across a pile of rotting prop crates. A wooden horse covered in mildew. A single red child's shoe, heel snapped off.
She froze.
That was *her shoe.
Seven years old. Little Town Story. She played the lead's daughter. Shot three scenes. Then Su Wanqing's mother—the assistant director then—said her eyes were "too dark, not suitable for a protagonist's child." Cut her. On the spot. She cried. Lost a shoe. No one picked it up.
And now, here it was.
She crouched. Fingers brushed the dusty leather.
Her wrist jolted.
Not her phone.
Her bones.
The Golden Sense—again.
She'd had it since she could remember. Not a disease. Not psychosis. Just this: touch an object, and she'd *see* its past.
A coffee cup showed her someone drinking alone at 3 a.m. A torn ticket stub whispered, *Don't look for me again.* But it had always been faint—like a radio stuck between stations, static and broken.
Until now.
She closed her eyes.
The vision slammed into her:
Rain. Heavy. Autumn, 2008. A narrow path outside the studio lot. A boy running, gripping a black umbrella as the wind tried to rip it from his hands. On the handle, carved deep: *"Zhao."*
He shouted, breath ragged: "I *have* to find you! Lin Wanzhao! Don't hide!"
The voice was so real it rang in her skull, like someone pressed their lips to her ear.
She opened her eyes. Gasping.
"This isn't the umbrella's memory…" she whispered. "It's… his?"
But the Golden Sense didn't read people. Only objects.
Unless—
That umbrella wasn't just an object.
It was a message.
She thought of this morning. "Bumping into" that old umbrella outside Gu Xingye's apartment. Black. Long-handled. Loose clasp. She'd grabbed it to block the rain.
The second her fingers touched it—electricity shot up her arm. She almost dropped it.
Now she understood.
It wasn't a chance.
It was a key.
She stood, walking deeper into the studio.
The air grew colder. Peeling posters lined the walls. Little Town Story.The lead actress smiled, radiant. In the corner, a little girl in a blue dress—half her face torn off with tape.
She knew that dress.
Her mother had saved for three months to buy it.
"You deleted my scenes. You burned my photos." She spoke to the empty room. "But you can't erase that I was here."
And then—footsteps.
Soft. But steady. Not a rat.
She turned. Her light cut through the dark.
Gu Xingye stood in the doorway. Black umbrella in hand. Same one she'd found. Same one from the vision.
He wasn't in a suit. No watch. Just an old hoodie, jeans rolled at the ankles—like he'd walked straight out of 2008.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice wavered.
"What are you doing here?" He stepped forward, folded the umbrella, and leaned it against the wall. "Why do you keep showing up where I am?"
"You're stalking me."
"Yeah." He nodded. "Since you stood outside this place for forty minutes last Wednesday."
"…You're sick."
"So are you." He smirked. "Breaking into abandoned studios at midnight. Lucky I didn't call the cops."
She glared. He didn't flinch. Just looked at her—like he was counting her eyelashes.
"You were here… when you were little?" she asked.
He raised a brow. "What about you?"
"I acted here."
"I know."
"You know?"
"You played my sister." He said it like it was obvious. "Little Town Story. I played your brother. We shot for seven days. On the eighth, you disappeared."
Her heart skipped.
"I didn't disappear. They fired me."
"Yeah." He nodded. "I looked for you. It was pouring. I ran up and down this road for two hours with that umbrella. Your house didn't answer. The neighbor said you moved."
Her throat tightened. "You… called my name?"
He looked at her. Then smiled. "What do you think?"
She wanted to punch him. Raised her hand. Then dropped it.
"Why did you keep that umbrella?" she asked.
"It's broken." He shrugged. "Ribs snapped. Rubber's gone. But I kept it by the door. My mom wanted to toss it. I said no."
"Why?"
"Dunno." He looked down. "Just felt like… someone would come for it one day."
She stared. "Did you… remember me all this time?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo. Yellowed. Corners curled. It had been rescued from water.
He held it out.
She took it. Her hands shook.
Two kids. Her, pigtails, blue dress, and smiling. He, taller, arm around her shoulder, making a "V" with his fingers.
On the back, handwriting—childish, but clear:
*"Don't cry, Zhaozhao. Brother Xingye is here."
Her breath stopped.
Fingertips brushed the ink—
BOOM.
The Golden Sense exploded.
Not a vibration. A detonation. White light flooded her vision. Her ears filled with static—like every radio station on earth turned on at once. Images flooded in:
—October 3, 2008. 4:17 p.m. Old prop master Lao Li, holding a camera: "Come on, one photo!" She skipped over. Gu Xingye took her hand.
—The film developed. Su Wanqing's mother saw the photo. Face changed. Snatched it. "These two are too close. Ruins the lead's image." Burned the negatives that night.
—But Lao Li kept a copy. Hidden in a prop box lining.
—Until three days ago. Gu Xingye found it while cleaning. Recognized her immediately.
And the final line—etched into her mind:
*"Photo taken by prop master Lao Li. Original negatives destroyed by Su Wanqing's mother. Motive: conceal real reason for child actor replacement—not performance, but the close bond between Lin Wanzhao and Gu Xingye, threatening Su Wanqing's status as sole female lead."*
She looked up. Eyes burning.
"So… it wasn't because I was bad."
"No." His voice was low. "You were *too* good. Good enough that they were afraid you'd take it all."
She laughed. It sounded like crying.
"Su Wanqing… her mother burned the photo. Now she's trying to burn *me*."
"She already started." He watched her. "This morning's trending topic: 'Child star Lin Wanzhao bullied classmates.' The photo of you pushing someone? AI-generated."
She nodded. "I know. But I didn't expect… the reversal. The audacity."
"They're scared." He stepped closer. "You hold what they've spent fifteen years hiding."
She looked down at the photo. Thumb traced the words on the back.
*Brother Xingye is here.*
For the first time in ten years, she didn't feel alone.
She folded the photo carefully. Slipped it into the inner pocket of her coat. Over her heart.
"I'm showing everyone," she said.
"You're not afraid?" he asked.
"I am." She smiled. "But I'm more afraid of being told I never existed."
---
The next day. Live forum: *Childhood Trauma and Public Responsibility*.
Su Wanqing sat center stage. White dress. Flawless makeup. Voice dripping with pity: "We understand Lin Wanzhao's psychological wounds. But we can't excuse her history of violence just because she suffered."
A reporter raised her hand: "Do you have evidence?"
"Yes." She smiled. "We have interviews with victims. And photographic proof."
The screen cut to a blurry clip: a little girl falling. Lin Wanzhao was standing beside her, expressionless.
Chat exploded.
[No way? Lin Wanzhao was a bully?]
[I thought she was tragic. Turns out she's toxic.]
[Ban her.]
Then—the door opened.
Lin Wanzhao walked in. Black coat. No makeup. Hair in a messy bun. Said nothing. Walked straight to the front. Slammed an A4 print on the table.
Silence.
It was the photo. Scanned. Crystal clear. Even the texture of the ink was visible.
She looked at Su Wanqing. Voice quiet, but sharp as glass:
"You say I bullied others?"
She paused. Smiled—cold, precise.
"Then how did the photo your mother burnedend up in my hands?"
No one spoke.
Su Wanqing's face went pale.
"You—where did you get that?"
"Lao Li, the prop master." Lin Wanzhao said. "Your mother burned the negatives. But he kept a copy. Hidden for fifteen years. Three days ago, his son contacted me."
She pulled out a USB drive. Held it up.
"On here: his diary scans. And another photo—he took it secretly when your mother ordered the deletion."
She turned to the live camera. Each word deliberate:
"I wasn't the bully. I was the one bullied. Cut from scenes. Replaced. Lied about. Driven out of the studio. And you—"
She pointed at Su Wanqing.
"You've lived on lies for fifteen years. And now you want to destroy me the same way?"
Dead silence.
Three seconds.
Then—clapping from the back.
An old journalist stood. "I was on set for *Little Town Story*. Lao Li… he was my friend. What did he say? I remember."
Another voice: "I was props. I stored that red shoe. That day she left… she was sobbing."
More voices joined.
Su Wanqing shot up, trying to leave.
Lin Wanzhao didn't look at her. Just said:
"Your mother burned that photo. Gu Xingye saw it happen. He *saw*. He *remembered*. And he waited fifteen years—for me to say it out loud."
She turned.
Gu Xingye stood in the doorway. Black umbrella in hand.
He winked.
She smiled.
---
That night, it rained.
She stood under her apartment building. No umbrella.
He walked over. Held the umbrella over her head.
"Stalking me again?"
"Coincidence." He said. "You live here. I live across the street."
She laughed.
"You fixed the umbrella?"
"No." He said. "But I think it's better now."
"Why?"
"Because it finally found its owner."
She didn't answer. Just shifted closer.
The umbrella was small. They huddled under it, shoulders pressed together.
Rain tapped the fabric. Soft.
Like a voice from long ago: *Don't cry, Zhaozhao. Brother Xingye is here.*
She looked up at him.
"Thank you… for remembering me."
He looked down. Eyes serious.
"I never forgot. I was just waiting for you to remember *me*."
Her nose stung.
She didn't cry. But her heart pounded.
The Golden Sense vibrated—just once.
Gentle. Like an echo of a heartbeat.
She knew then: it wasn't just reading objects anymore.
It was reading *her*.
And she wasn't that little girl hiding from the rain.
She was the storm.
---