Lu Li's dark eyes fell on the dining table, where two pieces of paper that did not belong there lay atop the dust.
The oil lamp was placed at the edge of the table. He picked up the notes—one was in a script belonging to no known language, undecipherable and incomprehensible. The other read:
[I am Lu Li. This is the third time. In the previous two instances, there were inversions. The ceiling footprints hold the answer. Memories of earlier events are forgotten. This is a squalid sewer, and the house lacks clues. The window of the guest room upstairs is shattered, and there are five stones on the floor. Next, I will]
[There are other figures on the street. They enter a house with a wooden sign. Next, I will move closer there.]
This was his tone, his handwriting.
After a pause, Lu Li lifted his gaze to the ceiling, and in the dim and biased light of the oil lamp, discovered two pairs of footprints extending toward the doors and stairs as noted in the memo.
