"Let me ask you — what was the title of the second encore song last night?"
"What second encore? There was only one. Summer Night Breeze."
"No, there were two. The first was Summer Night Breeze, and the second… what was the second one called again?"
"Have you lost your memory? Right after Summer Night Breeze ended, the lights came up, the announcement told everyone to leave, and we squeezed out through the east gate. You even stepped on my foot."
"What about the second song? The one the whole crowd sang together? The girl who started it in the audience?"
Silence hung on the other end of the line for three or four seconds.
Li Meng's voice turned tight and uneasy. "Cheng Ye, have you been working overtime till you've lost your mind? What girl? What second song? Get some sleep. I'll order you a calming herbal tea tonight."
She hung up.
I pulled the phone away from my ear. The call log read: Li Meng — 2 minutes 14 seconds. It was 3:47 in the afternoon. I rolled out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. In the mirror, dark circles hung heavy under my eyes, like I'd pulled multiple all-nighters.
But I'd slept soundly last night. I'd crashed straight after the concert and slept nine full hours.
I dried my face and went back to the bedroom. On the nightstand lay the crumpled concert ticket stub. Last night had been the final stop of Sunset Pier's farewell tour — a veteran rock band formed seventeen years ago. Li Meng had gotten the tickets; she'd been a die-hard fan for a decade. I'd only tagged along as a plus-one, not even knowing how many albums they'd released. Printed on the ticket: September 14th, 7:30 PM, North City Olympic Sports Center Stadium — Stand Ticket, ￥480.
I closed my eyes.
The concert the night before had been incredible. The lead singer was in his forties, unshaven, his voice no longer clear and bright like his younger days — but its husky roughness fit the mood perfectly. At 9:40 PM, the band bowed and walked offstage. The lights cut out, and the entire venue stomped their feet, screaming for an encore. After two or three minutes of stomping, the stage lit back up, and the five band members returned. The lead singer shook his head with a smile and muttered, You people really…
The first encore was Summer Night Breeze, sung in full crowd chorus. Even I could hum along to the melody.
When it ended, the lights dimmed again. As I remembered it, the band never left the stage. The lead singer gave a short speech, thanking everyone for seventeen years, saying they wanted to end the final night in a special way. Then he gestured toward the audience and said, Please. A staff member handed a microphone down into the crowd.
What happened next existed only as fragmented shards in my mind, like memories pieced together after blacking out drunk.
Someone in the audience began to sing. A woman's voice. It came from roughly the first ten rows — soft, steady, pure a cappella with no accompaniment. I couldn't recall the melody at all now, not a single lyric. But I remembered the texture of her voice: like pouring hot water into a glass on a cold day, transparent with a faint, gentle tremor. She sang one or two lines, then the entire crowd joined in. Li Meng sang along, and so did I.
Mid-chorus, I glanced to my right.
In the seat next to me sat a strange man in his early thirties, wearing a dark coat with a round, simple-looking face. He was crying. Not quiet, teary-eyed emotion — his whole face crumpled tight, lips pressed shut, tears streaming down his cheeks, shoulders shaking violently. I'd thought at the time he must be a long-time fan, mourning the end of seventeen years of youth. Crying made sense.
Then the show ended. The stadium lights blazed to full brightness, harsh ceiling fluorescent bulbs turning the arena bright as a morning market. The speakers played exit announcements, urging everyone to leave in order. Li Meng and I followed the crowd toward the exit. I stepped on her foot, and she snapped at me.
We walked a kilometer from the east gate before hailing a taxi. In the car, I joked they'd definitely reunite next year just to cash in on another tour. Li Meng insisted it was impossible — the guitarist planned to open a hot pot restaurant, the lead singer was moving back home to recover from poor health. She sounded utterly certain. She opened Weibo and scrolled through posts about the concert. I was too tired to pay attention.
I opened my eyes and picked up my phone.
The number one trending topic was indeed #SunsetPierFarewellConcert#. The feed was flooded with photos and clips from the night before. I scrolled down a few pages and froze.
A popular Weibo post uploaded at 11:17 PM the night before had over twenty thousand shares:
Sunset Pier absolutely killed it tonight!!! Two encore songs!!! I cried through the full crowd chorus of Summer Night Breeze! I completely broke down when everyone sang the second one together! Can't stop crying even after leaving the venue!
The comment section was flooded with people asking: Did anyone record the second song? Every reply was the same: I didn't record it either, Thought it was a new unreleased track. Someone asked which music platform had it available — no one had an answer.
Another post attached a video captioned: Full crowd chorus of Summer Night Breeze.
I tapped to play.
Filmed from the middle stands, the footage was a little shaky. At one minute forty seconds, it showed the chorus of Summer Night Breeze, the lead singer holding the mic out to the audience, tens of thousands of voices merging into one roar. The camera panned over the sea of glowing phone screens in the stands. At exactly one minute forty seconds, the video cut off automatically.
I was about to close it when my finger froze.
The progress bar showed the full video should be two minutes nine seconds long. It stopped dead at one minute forty. I dragged the bar forward — one minute forty-one seconds onward, nothing but black screen and silence. All the way to two minutes nine seconds, pure darkness.
I typed into the search bar: Sunset Pier second encore song.
Every post asked the same question: What was the name of the second song? Curiosity, confusion, quiet panic — people humming the vague melody all morning with no way to place it. Not a single person could name the track. No one even claimed to recognize it. Everyone shared the same strange state: I remember the song existed, but I can't recall the melody or lyrics. Like waking from the same collective dream, left only with a lingering emotion and nothing concrete.
I kept scrolling for a long time. Then I sat bolt upright.
A Weibo post uploaded at two in the morning, only a dozen likes. The blogger wrote a long, rambling post filled with raw emotion.
I need to ask one thing — who was that girl? I sat in the fourth row, I saw her clearly. She stood up when she started singing, the only person in the whole stadium standing. Staff handed her the mic. After she finished singing, everyone else joined in — all of you sang along to a song none of us have ever heard of. I looked back afterward, tens of thousands of people singing a nameless tune. She stayed standing the whole time, even after the exit lights turned on. People pushed past her to leave, no one even glanced her way. I don't know her, I was only three rows behind her.
The final line: I took a photo. I won't post it publicly — her face is crystal clear. Anyone who recognizes her, message me privately.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
A girl standing alone, starting the song a cappella. Staff passing her a microphone. The entire crowd joining in a song no one recognized. It matched exactly the fragmented memories floating in my head. When she sang alone, the whole stadium fell dead silent, only her voice echoing. After two lines, the first audience member joined in, then the lower stands, upper tiers, indoor pit — spreading like dominoes falling one after another.
I sent Li Meng a WeChat message: Do you really not remember the second song?
Two minutes later she replied: Please stop scaring me. Half the trending topics are talking about this now, and I'm genuinely creeped out.
What are you scared of?
She typed a long paragraph: I thought you were just sleep-deprived at first. But I checked my phone album — I took over a dozen photos at the concert last night. One was taken during the encore, aimed at the lead singer. The stage lights are on, the band is lined up onstage, but the lead singer isn't holding a microphone. His hands hang empty at his sides. The audience is a dark sea of people. I zoomed in, and it looks like someone is standing in the stands, backlit, face impossible to make out. I clearly heard singing when I took this photo — but it wasn't the band singing. The sound came from the audience.
She added another line: Cheng Ye… am I going crazy too?
I didn't reply.
I reopened that low-likes Weibo post. The blogger's ID was a jumble of letters and numbers, not a regular account. I sent a private message: Hi, I was also at the concert last night. Could I see the photo you took? I promise not to share it with anyone.
The wait was longer than I expected. I made myself a meal in the meantime. Opening the fridge, I saw half a roasted chicken I'd bought yesterday morning — no appetite at all. I poured a cup of hot water, held it in my hands, and sat staring blankly at the sofa. Outside the window, the sky dimmed early; September sunsets came faster than summer ones.
Just after seven in the evening, my private message notification lit up.
The person only replied with one word: Look. Then sent over the photo.
I tapped to open it and zoomed in.
Shot from a diagonal angle in the stands, the frame captured a corner of the stage. The band stood onstage, lead singer's hands hanging limp at his sides, expression blank, eyes fixed on somewhere in the audience. The stands were dimly lit, bright light spilling from the giant screen to the left. Between the third and fourth row aisle, a woman stood with her back to the camera. She was slender, narrow-shouldered, long hair falling to her shoulder blades, wearing an off-white long-sleeve cotton dress with cuffed wrists. Her head tilted slightly upward, half her face hidden by hair, a tiny silver stud glinting in her earlobe. Her right hand hung loose, left hand holding a black microphone pressed to her lips.
The stranger sent another message: That's her. She was the only one standing. She stayed there until everyone left, then the crowd blocked her from view, and I couldn't find her again. Do you know what song she sang?
I had no idea how to reply. I didn't know the title, the melody, a single lyric — only the texture of her voice, the lingering emotion, and the memory of the strange man beside me crying uncontrollably.
Do you know her? he asked again.
I typed a reply, then deleted every word one by one. Finally I sent: I don't recognize her. Does anyone around you remember this too?
After a long pause, he replied with three cold words: No one else.
A chill ran down my spine.
I thought back to the crowd leaving the stadium. Everywhere was chatter — excited chatter, tired chatter, satisfied chatter. People saying Perfect night, Won't be able to sleep tonight. Not a single person mentioned the second song. Outside the stadium gates, groups of people squatted on the plaza, several girls hugging and crying. While waiting for a taxi by the road, two boys argued over whether the intro to Summer Night Breeze started with guitar or piano. Tens of thousands of people spending over two hours in the same venue — yet not one person casually asking, Hey, what was that second encore song called?
It was like tens of thousands of people had silently agreed to ignore the exact same thing. That collective silence was far more unsettling than any scream.
At eleven that night, Li Meng sent a screenshot. She'd joined a five-hundred-member Sunset Pier fan group, and it was in complete chaos. Everyone asking about the second song, no one able to name it. Someone uploaded every live recording they'd taken from every possible angle. All clips captured Summer Night Breeze perfectly — but afterward, every video either cut to black screen or devolved into a low distorted hum, like the recording device had been submerged underwater.
There was only one exception: an audio file recorded with a voice recorder by a fan in the indoor pit. Opening it flooded my ears with raw live noise — exit announcements, footsteps, seats clicking shut. The faint chorus of Summer Night Breeze echoed in the distance before cutting off halfway. For the next three minutes, a faint melody lingered beneath the chaos.
I listened to those three minutes over a dozen times.
Most of the audio was noise: exit announcements, footsteps, plastic chair armrests clacking shut. But listening closely, beneath all the chaos, a soft undulating hum persisted — continuous, gentle, subtle waves of sound. It didn't sound distant; it sounded right beside the microphone, right next to the recording device, as if someone present had been quietly humming nonstop.
I turned the volume all the way up, closed my eyes, and tried to pick apart the melody again and again.
I still couldn't recognize it.
But I suddenly found myself crying.
I snapped my eyes open and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. The tears were cold. Only when my fingers touched my cheekbone did I realize my hand was trembling. I felt no sadness, no excitement — I didn't even know why I was crying. My body cried on its own, tears spilling out uncontrollably. Exactly like that strange man sitting next to me at the concert.
I was jolted awake by an alarm the next morning. I'd never set an alarm. A calendar reminder popped up on my phone: September 16th — Little Cousin's Birthday, order cake. I'd set it three months prior; my cousin's birthday was always my responsibility to arrange.
September 16th.
I shot out of bed.
When was the concert? September 14th. But today was —
The phone date stared back coldly: September 16th.
I clearly remembered the concert was last night. I'd slept through the 15th afternoon, messaged the stranger that 15th night, scrolled through videos and audio all 15th evening. But yesterday hadn't been the 15th at all. Yesterday was the 16th. An entire day had vanished into thin air.
I opened my call log — no records from the 15th at all. My private message history with the stranger still existed, but the timestamps had been compressed into September 15th 7:23 PM and September 15th 11:47 PM. All those hours of conversation spread across an entire afternoon and night were now crammed into a single date slot. Yet I vividly recalled talking to Li Meng at 3 PM, receiving the photo after 7 PM, listening to the audio past midnight. All stretched out over half a day — now merged into nothing.
I called my company to ask for leave. My supervisor sounded confused: Didn't you already take sick leave yesterday? Front desk said you submitted a medical note.
I never submitted anything.
Wait a minute. Moments later, he sent a photo over WeChat. A handwritten sick leave application, dated September 15th, signed with my name — my exact handwriting.
I stared at the signature. Every stroke, the weight of each lift, the familiar slight upward tilt to the right — all unmistakably mine. Yet I had no memory of writing this note at all.
Around nine in the morning, the stranger messaged again. He'd tracked down the concert organizers, gone through endless trouble, and finally gotten information from one of the live production directors. The official encore setlist only listed Summer Night Breeze. No second encore had been planned in advance. The gesture of passing a microphone into the crowd wasn't part of the script either. The lead singer had suddenly walked to the stage edge, bent down and whispered something to the audience, then signaled staff to hand down the mic. The on-site production directors hadn't been close enough to stop it — it all happened in mere seconds.
He also told me something really strange, the stranger wrote. He remembers someone taking the mic, but he can't recall who. He said the stands were pitch black with no lights on. He only felt the mic leave his hand, then the singing started. He stood less than a meter away from that person, glanced twice — yet now he can't picture their face at all. He's too embarrassed to tell anyone else, scared they'll think he's lost his mind.
Someone standing less than a meter away who'd handed over the microphone — yet couldn't remember their face.
Did they get the mic back afterward? I asked.
A long pause before his reply: No.
He added: Equipment inventory after the show confirmed one black handheld microphone missing. The walkie-talkies called for nearly an hour, checked three times after the crowd left — never found it. Still unaccounted for.
My heart skipped a heavy beat in my chest.
The woman in the photo — off-white dress, holding a black microphone in her left hand.
That evening, Li Meng called, her voice tight with tension. Cheng Ye, I asked a friend who sat in the third row of the indoor pit that night. She said — she paused, she remembers that woman. Right as the song ended, she glanced back. The woman turned and walked down the aisle by the third row toward the stage entrance. She either went backstage or somewhere else after that, no one noticed. Everyone else was singing along, only her walking away quietly.
Vanishing toward the stage?
Pretty much. And she had no bag, no glow stick, no fan banner. Didn't look like a regular audience member at all.
More like someone who belonged on the stage all along.
I hung up and reopened the photo.
Off-white dress, long hair, silver ear stud, black microphone. Started singing from the audience, then disappeared toward the stage. The staff who handed her the mic forgot her face. Tens of thousands sang her song yet couldn't recall the melody. Every recording device malfunctioned the moment she began singing. And for me personally — an entire day erased from my memory, a sick leave note written in my own handwriting I couldn't remember signing.
I zoomed the photo to its maximum. The woman's side profile blurred by pixelation, yet her expression was clearly tense, brows furrowed, mouth parted mid-song. Not excitement — intense focus, like completing some unavoidable task.
A small detail suddenly clicked into place.
After the first encore ended, the lead singer had said: For our final song, we want to end tonight in a special way. Then he gestured to the audience and said, Please. His tone hadn't been introducing a random audience member. He'd said Please naturally, as if that person was meant to be there all along. And when the woman stood up to take the microphone, there was no surprise, no fluster. She stood, took it, and began singing — as if buying that concert ticket had only ever been for this single purpose.
Nothing more, nothing less. Just this one thing.
My phone vibrated.
A new friend request popped up on WeChat. Profile picture was a girl's back silhouette with a gray filter, face unrecognizable. Verification message: Cheng Ye, you heard it too, didn't you?
My hand hovered over the screen, not pressing accept.
Outside the window, night had fully fallen. The living room lights were off, only my phone screen casting half my face in cold glow. Those words stared quietly back at me.
The person was patient. Three minutes later, a second request note: You don't know me, but I know you. On September 14th, you sat Stand C Row 4 Seat 17. Girl in white coat to your right, aisle to your left. Your friend wore a dark blue striped shirt.
Word for word accurate. Li Meng had worn exactly that dark blue striped shirt that night. I'd even teased her, saying she looked less like a rock concert fan and more like she was heading to a work meeting.
I still didn't accept.
Two minutes later, a third message: I mean no harm. I just need someone to talk to. A moment later, another line added: Since coming home, I can't remember my mom's face anymore. Staring at photos feels unfamiliar. I'm scared.
I stared at those words for a long time.
It wasn't forgetting her name, forgetting the layout of her home, forgetting childhood memories. It was failing to recognize her mother's face — that gut-wrenching sense of knowing you share the closest bond possible, yet the person in the photo feels utterly alien.
I pressed accept.
The second I confirmed, she sent a voice message instantly. I hesitated, then tapped play.
A woman's voice, slightly hoarse, like she'd been crying or hadn't drunk water in ages.
Cheng Ye, you're listening, right? My name's He Wen. I sat Row 6 of the indoor pit on the 14th, about ten rows in front of you. She paused, breathing heavily. I've been searching for three days. From the 15th till today, I've scrolled through every post, video, and audio clip online. Someone posted in the Sunset Pier supertopic asking if anyone remembers the second encore song — was that you?
I'd never posted that thread.
Wasn't me? I typed back.
Another voice message rushed through, urgent and confused: Not you then? Must be someone else. Doesn't matter. The important thing is I found someone who remembers the lyrics.
My heartbeat skipped.
Someone remembers them?
Half of them. A Bilibili music analysis blogger. He set up a tripod to record the full concert from the front pit. His video captured that woman clearly.
I typed stiffly: Every video online malfunctioned during the second song, didn't it?
They did — but his didn't. He said when he checked the footage later, the visuals were distorted during the second song, but when he split the audio track apart, the left channel captured something. A thirty-second audio clip. He Wen said. Wait, I'll forward it to you.
My phone vibrated. An MP3 file arrived.
I tapped play. It was nothing like the distorted voice recorder clip I'd heard before. This audio was crystal clear. The first few seconds held the end of Summer Night Breeze, applause fading into silence. Then the lead singer's voice: Please. Another two seconds of quiet — then her voice.
It flowed straight into the microphone, pure and liquid-like.
The melody unfolded naturally, not structured like mainstream pop with fixed verses and choruses. More like an endless flowing narrative, each note merging seamlessly into the next like running water. I couldn't understand the words — Chinese lyrics, yet sentence structures felt inverted, almost alien. Some words sounded like dialect, others completely unrecognizable. Yet the unfamiliarity didn't feel distant; it wrapped around my consciousness, slowly pulling me down into a daze.
Thirty seconds ended far too quickly. I stared at my phone screen in a daze for ages.
He Wen sent a message: Did you listen?
I did.
The blogger said something even more terrifying than the lyrics. Her voice dropped to a murmur over voice message. He thinks this song isn't telling someone else's story. It's singing the regrets of every single person who was there that night. It makes you forget the melody as you listen — the melody is only a carrier. The real content latches onto old wounds you thought had healed. You think you're just listening to a song… but it's digging up every buried regret from your past.
I suddenly understood why the strange man had cried that night, and why I'd broken down listening to the audio for no reason.
What do you want from me? I typed.
He Wen stayed silent for a long time, then sent another hoarse voice message: I need to get to the bottom of this. Because I found something even more wrong — that woman's song isn't only appearing at this concert. She paused. There have been other cases.
I sat straight up: What do you mean?
Last October's West Lake Music Festival. A female singer lost her voice mid-performance. Someone in the audience stood up and finished the entire song for her. It went viral online for a while, then everyone forgot. She continued. This March, a Chengdu livehouse show. The folk singer canceled last minute. Organizers announced a substitute performer would take their place — yet no one can remember what the substitute looked like afterward.
With every example she gave, faint memories flickered in my mind. I felt like I'd seen those news stories before — yet also like they'd never existed at all.
I cut her off: Is it always her?
No way to confirm if it's the same person. But every recorded incident shares one thing in common: no one remembers the singer's face. No clear recordings of her songs exist. Everyone who hears her either cries uncontrollably… or forgets everything. Some experience both.
Night had fully swallowed the outside world. I stood up, turned on the living room light — then turned it off again. For some reason, darkness felt safer.
He Wen suggested meeting in person to talk. She said there was an old vinyl record shop in North City's historic district. The owner had once been Sunset Pier's sound engineer, leaving the band over a decade ago. We agreed to meet there at 3 PM the next afternoon. I jotted the address in my notes, then hesitated and messaged Li Meng.
Li Meng replied instantly: I'm coming too. She added quickly: I don't think we should be alone right now.
She typed and deleted that line over and over, sending and retracting repeatedly.
The record shop sat in a dilapidated neighborhood marked for demolition. I took the subway then transferred to a bus. When I got off, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the damp smell of wet concrete. Sandwiched between two old residential buildings, the narrow shop entrance barely fit one person sideways. The faded sign read Zhou's Record Shop, with smaller text underneath: Classic Vinyl, Vintage CDs, Tape Restoration.
He Wen was already there. Younger than I'd imagined, mid-twenties, short bob haircut, eyes red and swollen from crying. Li Meng arrived ten minutes late, clutching her phone tightly — the photo of the woman in the off-white dress open on screen.
The shop owner was Mr. Zhou, early fifties, graying hair, wearing old-fashioned framed glasses. He Wen explained our reason for coming. Mr. Zhou stayed silent for so long I wondered if he'd even heard us.
Finally he spoke, slow and calm: You're talking about that girl from Sunset Pier back in '98, aren't you?
He didn't say that woman. He said that girl. Not forgetting her — deliberately avoiding naming her.
Do you know her? He Wen leaned forward slightly.
Never met her personally. Mr. Zhou's eyes didn't meet anyone's gaze. But I knew Sunset Pier's original songwriter. He stood up, walked to the back of the shop, pulled a yellowed file folder out from under a pile of dusty cardboard boxes, and set it on the counter. Demo master tapes from before they signed a record deal in '98. I recorded these for them myself. These tapes haven't been played for anyone else in eighteen years.
He slid the tape into an old cassette player. The machine whirred with static for a moment, then music flowed out.
A young girl singing.
It sounded nothing like the audio He Wen had sent me. The demo version was younger, even a little inexperienced — yet the tone, the timbre, was undeniably the same voice I'd heard at the stadium, the same voice in the MP3 clip.
As the tape played, Mr. Zhou spoke quietly: Her name was Su Wanting. Only twenty-two back then. Sunset Pier started with her and the current lead singer. Not bandmates — she was the main creator. They wrote all the band's earliest songs together.
The cassette clicked to a stop. Silence filled the shop, only the distant shout of a scrap collector echoing from the alley outside.
Li Meng spoke, her voice thick: What happened to her afterward?
Mr. Zhou took off his glasses to wipe them, then put them back on. A few days before signing their record contract in autumn 1998, she disappeared without a trace. Her last words to the band before leaving were: I'll come back. With a song no one has ever heard before.
No one in the shop spoke a word.
He Wen's fingers trembled: Was that her at the concert that night — the one who started singing?
I can't be certain. Mr. Zhou said. But I might know what that song was.
He walked over to his computer and opened audio editing software. I rearranged the fragmented lyrics you sent me by rhythm. He paused. This isn't written like modern pop music. Its structure is an old narrative form — ancient storytelling ballads. It uses song to recount life events, replacing fragments of your memories as you listen.
Staring at the rearranged lyrics on screen, I suddenly realized the truth.
Everyone connected to that song had forgotten something these past few days. Li Meng had forgotten she originally knew Su Wanting — as a die-hard fan of ten years, she must have seen the band's founding history. I'd forgotten too — I'd definitely seen Su Wanting's face in an old interview program once. What everyone lost was their memory of Su Wanting's existence entirely.
That song wasn't just a melody. It erased people's memories of her.
Now she's taking them back. Mr. Zhou's voice dropped low. Every time she sings again, more people remember her name, and the stolen memories flow back. That second song wasn't an encore at all. It's a key — unlocking the locked door inside every one of our minds.
He Wen suddenly said: Those of us who can still vaguely recall the melody… are the ones whose memory locks weren't fully sealed.
Mr. Zhou glanced at her: Or maybe she chose to let us hear it on purpose.
His words froze the air in the room.
Next, Mr. Zhou did something unexpected. He recreated the fragmented melody from the lyrics on his keyboard. Piece by piece, roughly a minute-long tune. Thin piano notes echoed through the quiet shop. As the final note faded, the wall clock struck exactly five in the afternoon.
Then I heard it.
The piano stopped. But music still lingered in the shop.
A woman humming, wordless, repeating the exact melody we'd just heard. The sound had no clear source. Speakers were off, all our phones locked, no one in the room humming. He Wen's face turned deathly pale. Li Meng tightened her grip on my sleeve.
The hum carried through the full length of the melody. When the last note faded, He Wen spoke in a flat, hollow tone:
That second song wasn't an encore. It was a preview.
When I got home that night, I made a chilling discovery.
I opened my old laptop, dug deep into the hard drive, and found a folder named Sunset Pier Ten-Year Tribute. Created three years ago. Inside were dozens of photos, interviews, an old talk show clip, and a document titled simply: Su Wanting File.
Document creation date: September 14th, three years ago. Modified timestamp: September 15th, 3 AM — the middle of the night after I'd returned from the concert. At three in the morning, while I'd been sound asleep, I'd edited a document I'd created three years prior. The file detailed everything about Su Wanting: height 163cm, left-handed (matching the hand holding the mic in the photo), born in Shangshui Village on North City's western outskirts (the village later demolished for development, gone forever), mother a local folk artist skilled in a nearly lost form of narrative ballad singing.
The final line, typed while I slept: September 14th. Sunset Pier Farewell Concert. Su Wanting returns to the stage. Encore Song One — Title TBD.
I closed the laptop. I had no memory of creating this folder, no memory of writing this document. Yet every word was unmistakably mine — my phrasing, my sentence structure, my habitual wording choices.
He Wen messaged me: Is it possible… you've known her far longer than you realize?
I didn't reply.
Over the next three days, events unfolded irreversibly.
He Wen created a group chat, pulling in everyone affected by the incident. Named The Untitled Second Song. By September 19th, thirteen people had joined — all audience members from the Sunset Pier farewell concert. Everyone's experiences differed slightly, yet shared three eerie similarities: One, they'd all heard the second song. Two, they'd all experienced memory gaps over the past few days — some losing an entire day, others failing to recognize loved ones' faces, some discovering notes they'd written with no recollection. Three, they all felt an inexplicable lingering sadness they couldn't explain.
On the third night, someone shared an article link in the group. A long feature from a major music platform, published September 18th. Title: The Encore Mystery: Sunset Pier, Su Wanting, and The Song That Never Existed. Over a million reads. The article detailed the full concert timeline, Su Wanting's background, Sunset Pier's early history, and eyewitness accounts from multiple fans.
The closing line read: We reached out to current Sunset Pier band members for comment — they declined all interviews. However, an anonymous former staff member stated: Su Wanting has never missed a single Sunset Pier performance. Every time the band steps onstage, she's always in the audience. Just because you can't recognize her… doesn't mean she isn't there.
On September 22nd, another shocking incident broke online.
A new Weibo trending topic popped up: Spring City Music Festival Secret Additional Performance. The festival was originally scheduled to close on September 22nd. Organizers suddenly announced a special closing-night segment — performer unknown, song list unknown. The official statement held only one line: This is a gift.
Attached was a photo: a single black handheld microphone sitting alone on an empty stage floor.
The top comment had three simple characters: Please come.
My phone vibrated. He Wen messaged the group: Did everyone get the email?
I opened my inbox. An unread message from the Spring City Music Festival organizers. Short and direct: You are specially invited to attend the closing-night special segment. Seat: Stand C Row 4 Seat 17 — the exact same seat number I'd had on September 14th. Signature at the bottom of the email: Performer — Su Wanting.
The group chat exploded into chaos.
I typed: I'm not going.
It was He Wen who replied, in huge bold font: She knows all of us. We weren't randomly chosen. She picked these thirteen people specifically. If you don't go… she'll find you anyway.
The group fell silent for ten minutes. Someone finally asked: What does that mean?
He Wen explained she'd spoken again with the Bilibili blogger. He'd translated one line from the fragmented lyrics: Thirteen souls, each takes one thing; all return to one path. The blogger added this wasn't ordinary song lyrics — not written for modern listeners. It read more like a translated ancient incantation.
A curse.
Silence descended over the group once more.
Finally, Mr. Zhou spoke up. I re-read his words many times afterward. He said: If that song is the starting point, the ending won't be another concert. Su Wanting is rediscovering this world again. The thirteen of you are her anchors connecting her to reality. As long as you remember what others have forgotten… she exists. She needs you.
On the afternoon of September 22nd, I bought a high-speed train ticket to Spring City.
Forty minutes from North City by rail. The festival venue was a creative industrial park renovated from an abandoned old textile factory on the city's outskirts, with four stages scattered across the compound. I arrived two hours early. Dusk hadn't fully fallen yet, a faint crimson afterglow bleeding across the western sky.
Following the signs, I found the special closing venue — an abandoned raw cotton warehouse. Standing at the entrance, I spotted He Wen, Mr. Zhou, Li Meng, the middle-aged man with glasses, the girl with silver-gray hair, and all the other group members I'd only spoken to online. Thirteen people exactly, no more, no less.
The warehouse lights were dim, thin beams filtering through gaps in the steel truss ceiling, casting twisted shadows across the floor. No stage design, no staff. Alone in the center of the warehouse floor stood a single black microphone, illuminated by a faint bottom spotlight.
The performance began.
The moment the sound started, it felt like air was sucked out of the warehouse in an instant, then slammed back down with heavy, damp vibrations. Everyone fell silent. The melody defied normal description — resonating deep inside every person present simultaneously. Then a slender silhouette in an off-white long-sleeve dress stepped silently into the spotlight. Su Wanting. Her face remained indistinct in the dim light, outline matching the photo perfectly, long black hair blending into the surrounding darkness.
She reached down and picked up the microphone.
The second she began to sing, time felt distorted. It wasn't one person singing — it was hidden dusty compartments inside every mind forced open, fragmented memories flooding forward all at once. I suddenly saw a crude basement studio — 1997, North City Radio's live interview. My memory snapped fully into place. Su Wanting in pale gray, standing beside a young lead singer with shaggy long hair — the same man who now performed with a beard all these years later.
She sang without clear lyrics. Or rather, every person's buried pain and regret transformed into sound — impersonal, repetitive, indescribable tones flowing endlessly.
He Wen was the first to sink to her knees. Then Li Meng, the silver-haired girl, even Mr. Zhou trembled uncontrollably. It finally made sense why everyone reacted this way: eighteen years ago, Su Wanting hadn't vanished voluntarily. Cornered by unfair hidden contract clauses before signing with the label, she'd been pulled into an unseen loop by a truth everyone would later forget. Her only way to preserve Sunset Pier's original spirit was to erase herself entirely from everyone's memory. But she never truly left. She needed a small group of people to remember her — to remember she'd ever existed at all.
When the final note faded, Su Wanting said nothing. She placed the black microphone back on the floor and vanished into the shadows. Silence settled thick as cloth over the warehouse, no one daring to move.
Suddenly, all the overhead mercury lamps blazed to full brightness. The factory speaker crackled to life with a girl's soft, smiling voice: The encore segment has ended. Please exit in order. Until next time… please don't forget those who were here tonight.
Back at my hotel that night, He Wen sent a photo. The festival equipment inventory list from backstage. One line read: Wireless handheld microphones — Total prepared: 38, Recovered: 38. The next line noted: Remark: One additional microphone found already on-site during setup. Brand and serial number too worn to identify origin. Not to be discarded — stored securely in equipment storage.
A new calendar reminder popped up unprompted on my phone, pushed directly to the lock screen without my input: September 30th — North City Olympic Sports Center Stadium. Please come.
At the bottom of the screen, He Wen's new message arrived at the exact same moment: Cheng Ye… please come.