Starting from zero degrees on the ecliptic, the sun travels fifteen degrees along its path, and the time that passage takes is called one solar term. Three hundred sixty degrees a year. Twenty-four terms. Two per month.

The first term of each month is the jieqi: Beginning of Spring, Awakening of Insects, Clear and Bright, Beginning of Summer, Grain in Ear, Minor Heat, Beginning of Autumn, White Dew, Cold Dew, Beginning of Winter, Major Snow, Minor Cold.

The second is the zhongqi: Rain Water, Spring Equinox, Grain Rain, Grain Full, Summer Solstice, Major Heat, End of Heat, Autumn Equinox, Frost's Descent, Minor Snow, Winter Solstice, Major Cold.

Jieqi and zhongqi alternating, fifteen days each, though people had long since collapsed the distinction and called them all "solar terms."

These fragments circled through Ma En's mind like a murmur — not voices, exactly, but knowledge surfacing and resurfacing as he drifted between sleep and waking. What fills your days haunts your dreams. He'd slept shallowly all night, and waking felt less like waking than like finally admitting he'd never really been asleep. Every book he'd read the night before was still there, sharp and accessible — titles, passages, specific details. But none of it made him feel any smarter than yesterday.

He was still thinking about it while he washed up. Last night's research had produced nothing. He knew more about the Twenty-Four Solar Terms than he had before — more theory, more folk stories, more regional variations — but the knowledge hadn't sparked the inspiration he needed. No connection to the Seven Transmutations of the Profound Mystery Records had revealed itself. Maybe the association between those twenty-four vanishing characters and the Solar Terms wasn't as correct as he'd felt it to be. Maybe intuition and imagination alone couldn't sustain him. The thought was both frustrating and strangely exciting — frustrating because he'd made no progress, exciting because the unknown was still unknown.

Ma En wrung out the towel and scrubbed his face hard.

He went to the wardrobe. Dark suit, deep red tie. He dressed in front of the mirror, adjusting cuffs, collar, hem, smoothing out the faintest creases. The wardrobe contained nothing but identical outfits — four sets of the same suit, the same shirt. He updated his clothes every year, but he almost never changed the style.

His elementary school uniform had been four identical sets. Middle school, the same. High school, the same. University had no uniforms, but he'd worn only identical casual wear. After he started working, the casual wear became suits — same cut, same color, four sets. Every friend he had complained about it. To Ma En, it was simply the most efficient way to live.

He folded his blanket the way a drill instructor demanded during military training — precise, squared, no exceptions. When he cleaned, he didn't miss a single crack or crevice. Every object had a place, and the placement looked premeditated, as if the room had been arranged by a set designer who'd planned every angle. He didn't think of it as obsessive. If something could be done to his standard, he did it to that standard. That was all.

His friends and family avoided visiting his apartment. The reason was always the same: they felt pressure. Every visit made them afraid to touch anything, as if the act of picking up a magazine or setting down a cup might violate some invisible rule. Ma En genuinely didn't care — things could get dirty, messy, broken; he'd never blamed anyone. He'd clean up afterward. He knew how. But the knowledge that he would clean up, that the restoration would be total and silent, made people feel worse, not better. He thought of himself as easygoing — he listened to jokes, laughed at them, never took offense. But other people never saw it that way.

Even his parents couldn't explain where any of this came from. No one in the family was like him. Among all his relatives, he'd always been the odd one.

He'd lived this way for as long as he could remember, and his first morning in Japan was no different.

He'd moved in yesterday, organized through the evening, researched through most of the night. Getting up and surveying the new apartment, it still felt foreign — the proportions, the light, the air itself. He missed home. The change wasn't just about details; it was atmospheric. The familiar smells were gone.

News about the job wouldn't come today, but Ma En scheduled his day by habit anyway. First, get to know the surrounding area. If possible, meet the neighbors. He'd already read through Kamishima's materials on the Room 4 deaths, but locals would know things that didn't make it into files. There were many things to confirm, and most of them would only become clear after he'd lived here for a while. First things first, though — he needed breakfast.

He'd heard that Japanese noodles were distinctive. He wanted to try them, see how they compared to what he was used to back home.

The rough plan was already in his head from the night before. He grabbed the large black umbrella from the entryway and stepped out.

It was a weekday. By nine in the morning, the hallway was deserted — nobody in sight in either direction. Everyone had already left, or no one was coming out. Ma En had heard that many married women in Japan were full-time housewives, but he didn't know the specifics. Back home, if the husband was an ordinary worker, one salary couldn't support a family. Both partners worked.

He stepped into the elevator. Before the doors could close, a neighbor's door flew open and a young woman came bursting out — reddish-brown skirt suit, heels clicking in quick little steps, clearly running late. She spotted the open elevator and called out: "Wait! Hold the door!"

Ma En pressed the open button, unhurried. She'd already shut her door and was jogging over, and she darted inside with a breathless string of thank-yous. Ma En let go of the button. The doors drifted shut. Only then did he nod at her with a warm smile. She looked barely past 20 — though, strictly speaking, Ma En was barely past 20 himself.

"Good morning. Do you live here?" She'd calmed down as quickly as she'd panicked.

"Yes. I'm Ma En — just moved in today. Room 4, same floor."

"Oh! Nice to meet you. I'm Hirota Masami." She said it fast, then caught herself. Something about his speech had registered. "If you don't mind my asking — where is Ma-san from?"

"The Mainland. I arrived in Japan yesterday."

"I see." She brightened. "Your Japanese is very correct..." She hesitated, choosing her words. "Actually, we don't usually speak quite so... formally." Her tone was tactful, but Ma En understood immediately. It was like speaking in textbook grammar during a casual conversation back home — technically correct, but nobody actually talked that way.

"Ha — first time in Japan. I haven't had much chance to practice with real people," Ma En said easily. "But I've found work here, so I'll be around for a while. It'll come naturally."

"I see." Hirota Masami said it with a small burst of recognition — naruhodo — her intonation rising in a way that struck Ma En as slightly theatrical. But this was probably just how Japanese people talked. "What kind of work will Ma-san be doing?"

"Administrative work at a new school, most likely. I'm still waiting on the details, but it's almost certain."

"Are you going in for an interview?"

"No — a friend set it up, so it should be fine." Ma En saw no reason to be evasive.

"I see." There it was again — the same phrase, the same tone of genuine comprehension. This time her expression turned wistful, maybe envious. She looked like she wanted to ask more — she was clearly curious about him — but the elevator chimed. Her eyes went wide, as if she'd just remembered where she was supposed to be. She stepped out first, walking and talking over her shoulder: "Sorry, Ma-san — I have to run. Let's talk properly next time."

"Sure. Take care." Ma En nodded and followed her out.

Hirota Masami walked fast for someone in heels. She rounded a corner and was gone. By the time Ma En cleared the building's security gate, she'd vanished entirely. The road outside was alive with traffic, and the apartment's quiet emptiness shattered the instant he stepped onto the sidewalk. Ma En walked along the main road, passing residential blocks and storefronts. Within ten minutes, the density increased — taller buildings, bigger billboards, the unmistakable pulse of a commercial district.

The weather was beautiful. Warm sun, blue sky stretched wide. A man carrying a large black umbrella through all this brightness naturally drew looks from passersby, but Ma En didn't care. People stared back in China too. The umbrella wasn't an affectation. He'd started carrying it in middle school, after he'd been chasing the bizarre for long enough to encounter something genuinely dangerous. He'd been young — young enough that the umbrella was the only weapon at hand, and it had been enough. Since then, he'd modified it repeatedly. It was a multi-purpose self-defense tool now, disguised as an everyday object.

A swordsman keeps his sword close. Ma En kept his umbrella closer.

He counted ten ramen shops along the way. Some looked like fast-food chains; others were small private operations. A few had storefronts so beautifully designed they were worth admiring on their own; others were plain, unremarkable, and packed with customers, voices spilling out through the door. Ma En walked three blocks before stepping into one called Ichiraku.

The shop had customers but a third of the seats were empty. Space was tight — no individual tables, just a single long counter where everyone sat side by side. The chef was a middle-aged man, and his assistant was a girl who looked younger than Hirota Masami — 16, maybe 17. If she really was that age, shouldn't she be in school? Ma En wasn't sure.

Both of them were drenched in sweat from the work. The chef mopped his face with the towel draped around his neck and bellowed at Ma En: "Welcome!"

"One bowl of ramen... any recommendations?" Ma En asked. Every head at the counter swiveled toward him. His speech, again.

"One pork bone ramen, coming up!" The chef didn't miss a beat, already reaching for his tools. Beside him, the girl kept washing dishes, sneaking glances at Ma En.

"Where's the customer from?" the chef asked.

"From China. Just arrived yesterday," Ma En said. "First time in Japan. I've heard the ramen here is something special."

The customers who hadn't left were all listening now.

"Only two countries in the world can make truly great noodles — Japan and China. You eat at my shop, customer, you won't be disappointed." The chef was already ladling broth into a bowl as he spoke.

"Here for a vacation?" A middle-aged man at the counter leaned in.

"No — for work. I'll be here a while."

"From China to work in Japan? Around here, what — teaching?"

Ma En accepted the enormous bowl of ramen over the counter. "A friend arranged it. Administrative work at a new technical school. I might end up teaching too — the specifics aren't settled yet."

"New technical school?" The man turned to the rest of the counter. "Hey — anyone heard about a new technical school opening around here?"

"The one that's been all over the news, right? Katsura-sensei's Computer Technology School," someone chimed in. "I heard enrollment's already full and they haven't even started classes."

"That's the one," Ma En said. "Whether I get in is still up in the air — I haven't actually interviewed."

"Computer Technology School, right? If your computer skills are good, should be fine." Someone else jumped in. "How are you with computers? I heard about these computer hackers — they pulled off some huge case in America."

The rest of the customers joined in, talking over each other. To Ma En's ear, it was all secondhand impressions — none of them seemed to actually use computers, probably a generational thing. But this was his first time experiencing the social ecosystem of a ramen shop. Maybe Ichiraku was the exception rather than the rule, but the warmth of it caught him off guard. In a country where he knew almost nobody, being drawn into conversation by total strangers made the distance feel smaller.

"I manage," Ma En said. "I did computer work back in China. Government offices are switching to computerized systems, but it's still new — most people can't even type properly yet."

"Sounds cutting-edge. How much does a computer cost?" someone asked.

"About ten thousand yuan in China. Not sure about prices here." Ma En answered between slurps. The ramen tasted different from what he was used to — lighter, more restrained. The ingredients themselves were flavorful, but he was accustomed to heavier seasoning that pushed the raw flavors into the background. Even so, he gave the chef an open, genuine smile. "This is delicious."

"Glad to hear it, customer." Pride spread across the chef's face.

The conversation at the counter had drifted to something called "manga cafes" — places that apparently had comics, coffee, and computers all under one roof. From what Ma En could gather, they weren't the same thing as internet cafes back home. The mention reminded him of Kamishima's advice: learn about Japan's anime and manga industry.

"I've been wanting to learn about anime," Ma En said. "I hear the industry here is really taking off?"

"Manga?" The chef grinned. "I read some myself." He jerked his chin toward his assistant. "But Asuka's the real expert. She's getting ready to submit her work to a magazine — might turn into a manga artist one of these days."

The girl's hands spasmed. Dishes clattered into the sink. Her face went scarlet. "I am not!"

"What are you so jumpy about? You're a grown woman. Being a manga artist's a fine career — I hear they make a hundred million yen a year." The chef scolded her through a laugh.

"You have no idea how hard it is to become a manga artist," Asuka muttered, scrubbing a bowl like she wanted to grind it to dust.

"When Asuka's manga hits the magazines, she'd better let us loyal customers know!" The counter erupted in laughter. Asuka ducked her head further, her hands working furiously, whether from embarrassment or anger impossible to tell.

"Just you wait — I'm going to submit it the moment my shift ends!" she said. Her voice came out barely louder than a whisper.

"What genre do you draw?" Ma En asked. He didn't know much about manga, but he knew it shared DNA with literature and film — enough common ground to have a conversation.

Asuka looked up. Her eyes met his for a moment, then dropped. "Ghost stories," she said quietly.

"Urban ghost stories?" Ma En's interest sharpened. Urban legends had always been a cornerstone of Japanese folklore. Most were fabricated, but some people believed that among the fictions, genuinely bizarre things had surfaced.

"Mm." Asuka seemed reluctant to elaborate, but after another glance at Ma En, she kept going. "Adaptations of old stories, really. There's an upscale apartment building nearby with a pretty famous rumor. I used that as the basis."

Ma En caught the key words instantly.

"Nearby apartment?" He named his current residence. "Kojima Apartment? 13th floor, Room 4?"

Asuka's eyes widened. "You know about it?" She stared — he'd told them he'd only arrived in Japan yesterday. The rest of the counter had gone quiet, everyone turned toward the two of them.

"I live there. The rent's very cheap — a friend told me why." Ma En kept his tone even. "Apparently eight people have died in that room over twenty years."

"Nine." A customer corrected him immediately. "I heard someone who moved out died right after, too."

"I heard ten," another voice said.

"I heard it needs to reach thirteen..." A man down the counter leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Young man, I'd be careful. Don't let a little cheap rent lure you in. The people before you moved out, didn't they? Must've been because of this."

Each number arrived with absolute confidence, each speaker certain they had the right count. The folklore engine at work — the death toll growing with every retelling.

Asuka's eyes had gone bright. "They're just rumors. It's not that scary — all the deaths were accidents or illnesses, right?"

"The problem is they all died on the same date, in the same room," the chef said sharply, cutting her off. He turned to Ma En with an apologetic look, knowing he shouldn't be saying this to a customer who actually lived there. "And you — don't go poking around that building," he added to Asuka.

"It's fine. I don't put much stock in these things," Ma En said with a small smile. "Right now, cheap rent matters more to me."

"Yeah..." The chef sighed, his bluster softening. "Same everywhere, isn't it? Life's not easy."

Asuka said nothing, but Ma En caught the look on her face — unconvinced, fascinated, not the least bit frightened. He had a feeling she'd show up at his building eventually.

"Since you draw ghost stories," Ma En said to her, "do you have any research materials? I'd like to learn more about Room 4."

Asuka glanced at the chef — a quick, cautious look — then answered: "If you come by the shop a few more times, I can bring some things."

"I'd appreciate that," Ma En said.