When the black‑and‑white snow static of the TV clung to his arm like liquid and his elbow went numb in an instant, a spark exploded in Zhang Wenda’s mind.
He nearly jerked his arm loose instinctively, wildly shaking off whatever it was.
As the specks of black and white vanished in the air like fading starlight, Zhang Wenda had already backed several steps to the doorway, ready to run at any moment.
It wasn’t until he saw there was nothing unusual on the back of his hand that the tight knot in his throat loosened just a little.
He pressed his back against the wall and hurried to his bed, deftly retrieving an old aluminum flashlight from under it—something he’d keep handy for nighttime trips to the shared toilet during frequent power outages.
An antique handed down from his grandfather—once his only household appliance, it had even served as dowry so his grandfather could marry his grandmother.
The metal flashlight felt heavy in his hand, as though he were holding his grandfather’s hand, and it calmed his racing heart a bit.
Armed now, his nerves eased a touch more and he watched warily as the strange yet familiar TV set stood in his old home of ten years. The comfort he’d felt before had evaporated, replaced by a creeping terror up his scalp.
From afar, the TV still rattled and hissed as it displayed the fast‑jumping static—as if everything that had just happened was an illusion.
“What’s going on? Is this really me as a kid? Where… is this?” Zhang Wenda’s mind spun in confusion, unsure whether the problem lay in the environment or his own head.
He remembered news reports about people who lost their minds, thinking everyone else was crazy when the problem was really within themselves.
As he tremblingly faced the air, wrestling with his nerves, a familiar voice came from outside the window: “Mouse~! Mouse~! You’ll be late!”
“Fatty?!” At that voice, a chubby silhouette appeared in his mind—the friend he’d played with since childhood!
He dashed out with the flashlight to the hallway, peering past the concrete balustrade at the row of brick tenements below, where that familiar face and signature round glasses awaited him.
“Mouse, what are you doing just standing there? Put on your uniform and go to school!” Pan Dongzi said, biting into a meat bun as he craned up to shout at Zhang upstairs.
“Don’t move! Just stay there!” Zhang Wenda hurried down the stairs and scrutinized the little chubby kid standing below.
It really was him—right down to the mole at the corner of his mouth. It had been ages since they last met.
They’d been close friends, playing together every day. But then his friend’s father got rich and sent him off to a big city school, and their bond was severed.
Seeing that familiar face now eased a bit of Zhang Wenda’s fear.
“What are you doing? Changing into your uniform? Look what time it is!” the chubby kid lifted his right hand to show his plastic digital watch squeezed into his chubby wrist. “Look at how cool this is! My dad bought it for me.”
“He looks exactly the same… personality’s the same too. Still that cheeky self. It’s definitely him,” Zhang Wenda thought.
“Fatty,” he said, focusing on him. “The TV’s glitching, but I’m not sure if it’s the TV or if I’m crazy. I need you to check it out.”
“Time’s ticking!” The kid shoved the watch right in Zhang’s face.
“Stop showing off your stupid watch—help me check it!” Zhang Wenda pulled him into the room.
With a creak, the door swung open and he hurried to the TV, grabbing the kid and shaking him in front of it.
As he shook him harder, the black‑and‑white static inside the screen swirled and spilled out like water from a jar.
“Look!” Zhang Wenda pointed excitedly at the static disappearing on the floor, talking rapidly to the chubby kid.
“Look at what? It’s just your family’s TV. What’s so special about a black‑and‑white TV? Mine’s color,” Pan Dongzi said dismissively. “Check out my watch—no, check the time on it!”
“Look at those black and white dots! Didn’t you notice something weird?” Zhang Wenda shook the kid again, and more static sloshed out.
Then Pan Dongzi calmly adjusted the two telescoping antennas on top of the set.
“Oh, you can’t shake it like that. Today’s the 6th. On the 6th, you gotta hang a meat bun on the TV.”
He pulled a meat bun from a plastic bag and used a string to hang it from the left antenna.
Glancing at the time and noticing it was almost eight o’clock, he lightly tapped the left side of the TV four times.
With a crackle, the dancing black‑and‑white static dispersed, and in the next moment, two elders in long gowns began performing a crosstalk routine.
“Yo~ Have you eaten yet?”
Zhang Wenda stood agape, his jaw practically hitting the floor. “What the hell?!”
“Wait, eight o’clock?!” Pan Dongzi glanced at his watch, then panicked, stuffing the rest of his bun into his mouth and dashing out. “If you don’t want to be late, then don’t! Being late sucks.”
“Hey! Hey hey hey! I haven’t finished asking!” Zhang Wenda chased after him, watching as the kid sprinted away, his green Ultraman backpack bouncing on his shoulders.
“How… did he do that? Why’d he do it?” Zhang Wenda returned to the TV, flipping it on and off.
With that meat bun dangling from the antenna, all four channels had returned—and clear as day.
Although the TV was working, Zhang Wenda’s head felt even more muddled. Too many unknowns.
But thanks to Fatty, he’d figured one thing out: first, he wasn’t hallucinating—this weird event wasn’t something only he experienced, it was real.
Second, Pan Dongzi wasn’t surprised—he knew how to fix the TV. Which meant this was typical here; that the world functioned this way was totally normal.
Otherwise, with his personality, Fatty would’ve shown off this weirdness to Zhang a thousand times by now.
“Is this common? Really common? Is there something wrong with me, or is there something wrong with this world?” Zhang Wenda mused, tapping the TV on and off as he thought.
At first glance, everything here looked identical to his childhood—yet something was off. And yet, not totally wrong—at least, people hadn’t changed.
“Parallel world? Another Earth? Did I slip into it when I traveled through time?” he joked to himself wildly.
After sitting uneasily on the sofa for a while, his nerves settled. Although strange, the only abnormality was the TV.
No monsters had jumped out to eat him. This world, however bizarre, wasn’t dangerous.
Perhaps it ran by different rules—but as long as one followed them, life was no different.
After all, whether or not you had to hang a bun on the TV, as long as you could watch it, it was fine.
Staring at the bun hanging from the antenna, Zhang’s hunger stirred as he looked and looked.
“Damn, you ungrateful fatty. Didn’t save me any buns, damn brat.”
He took the now‑cold bun off the antenna and bit into it. Juicy richness burst in his mouth—the savory broth, the mellow pork, the spicy notes of scallion and ginger—one bite was delicious beyond words.
“That fatty sure knows how to eat.” At that point, he slowed down. Nothing would change by panicking.
As he chewed the bun, he thought: “When he gets out, I’ll corner him. I need answers. What the hell is this?”
The bun was tasty—but only one. It whetted his appetite and made him hungrier. At his age, growing constantly, one bun wasn’t enough.
He began rummaging through cupboards and drawers for money or snacks.
“Strange—I remember hiding some cookies in here…”
With half his body halfway inside the wardrobe, he heard a crash behind him. Turning, he saw his multiplication‑table pencil case had fallen to the floor, mechanical pencils and lead pencils spilling out across the room.