Chapter 3: A New Shell, Old Memories, and a Question of Commitment

The apartment allocated by the organization was located in Maplewood Gardens.

It was on the fifth floor of Building Seven, facing south, a modest one-bedroom, one-living room unit with a small balcony.

Evidently, the organization had considered both basic living necessities and initial camouflage when preparing this residence for Su Xinxin, a new identity of a freshly turned eighteen-year-old, just graduated from high school.

Inside the living room, cream-colored walls met light wooden floors.

A brand-new set of bright, almost deliberately vibrant, goose-yellow and pale pink throw pillows adorned a light grey two-seater sofa.

A small, natural wood coffee table and a white TV cabinet completed the setting.

In one corner, a pot of pothos trailed its vines, offering the only hint of life.

The bedroom featured a white wrought-iron bed, neatly made with light pink sheets and a pale yellow duvet.

The desk by the window stood empty, its chair primly tucked underneath, while an entire wall of white wardrobes remained tightly shut.

Everything about it perfectly matched what one might expect from a typical, even somewhat cozy, teenage girl’s room.

It was clean, orderly, and equipped with all the essential furniture.

Yet, Su Xinxin, standing in the center of the living room, felt an overwhelming emptiness within these walls, a silence that unnerved her.

It was too new, too perfectly arranged, utterly devoid of any human touch.

There were no signs of wear from years of life, no small forgotten trinkets left carelessly about, and no clothes drying on the balcony, carrying the scent of sunshine and laundry detergent.

The air held only the faint, almost imperceptible scent of new furniture and textiles.

It was a stark contrast to the old house she remembered, cluttered with her daughters’ old possessions, the flowers and plants her husband tended, the grandchildren’s scribbles on the walls, and the constant aroma of cooking or old books.

This sense of solitary quietude eerily mirrored her final days in the hospital bed, only now she inhabited a brighter, yet more unfamiliar, shell.

Oh, and this shell now contained a small, fluffy creature that moved and made sounds.

Su Xinxin walked into the bedroom and sat down at the desk.

The desk was made of natural wood, positioned right by the window.

She pulled open a drawer, finding it neatly stocked with several brand-new notebooks, a box of pens, and a stack of sticky notes.

She selected a pen adorned with a small white fluffy pom-pom charm—all the pens in the box featured such cute decorations—and then picked up a sticky note.

The pen tip hovered above the paper for a long moment before slowly descending to make its first stroke.

She wrote slowly, with considerable force, as if the pen were not carving lines onto paper, but cutting through solidified memories.

“What are you writing? Let me see?”

Xiao Ming’s voice suddenly chimed by her ear.

It had floated over at some point, its red eyes curiously peering at the paper.

Su Xinxin didn’t respond; she merely pulled the sticky note closer to herself, shielding it from Xiao Ming’s gaze.

On the paper, the names of her three daughters were already written, followed by their respective contact information and vague residential areas.

Below that were the nicknames of her grandchildren.

However, after the words “Bank Account Number,” there was a glaring expanse of blank space.

Who would intentionally memorize those digits?

She had tried once, thinking it might be useful, but had forgotten them almost immediately.

Memory was like a leaking sieve; the harder she tried to hold onto it, the faster it slipped away.

She wrote these things because she was afraid.

She feared that the aging soul within this young body would be swept away by the new and chaotic days, blurring even the most vital details.

Wasn’t this the simplest, most stubborn reason she chose to stay?

To quietly, from a distance, do something more for them, in this guise of “Su Xinxin,” with this pristine identity of an eighteen-year-old high school graduate.

As for her original name… Gu, Gu what was it again?

Ah, she was old; she couldn’t quite recall.

It seemed unimportant now.

‘Old man,’ ‘Dad,’ ‘Grandpa,’ ‘Elder Gu’… these titles had followed her for a lifetime.

That name on her ID card and household registration felt like a distant, faded symbol, gently dissipating with her last breath on the hospital bed.

“Do you need help?” Xiao Ming’s voice was soft this time.

“No,” Su Xinxin replied, putting down the pen and absently stroking the edge of the paper.

She was still wearing the clothes provided by the organization: a light blue cotton dress, simple in style but well-fitted, with soft fabric that felt pleasant against her skin.

It was a “young girl’s style” she would rarely have bought, let alone worn, in her previous life.

She remained silent for a while, her fingers unconsciously rolling the hem of her skirt, her voice low, tinged with a hope she hadn’t even realized was there: “Can I… go back just once?

Without disturbing them, just to retrieve one or two small things, just one or two.”

Xiao Ming’s ears drooped, and its fluffy tail sagged along with them.

“That… isn’t possible,” it said, its voice small and apologetic.

“In their world, you have already departed.

Those items… they carry memories and grief that they need to bear, and they no longer belong to the current you.”

The light in Su Xinxin’s eyes dimmed slightly, then quickly returned to its deep, still placidity.

“…I understand.”

“Don’t worry,” Xiao Ming clumsily nudged the back of her hand with its fluffy paw, as if offering comfort.

“With this information, you’ll definitely be able to send your sentiments through safe channels in the future.

Just… don’t think about going back.

Maintaining distance is a form of protection, for both you and them.”

“…Mm.”

Her words grew sparse again.

Back in the old house, she used to chatter about everything—the weather, meals, the neighbor’s dog.

Later, when she became bedridden, her words dwindled day by day.

Now, with a clear, youthful voice, this habit of silence seemed to have taken root, difficult to shake off.

The room fell quiet once more, and in that stillness, time always slipped away quickly.

When Su Xinxin abruptly snapped out of her reminiscence, she realized much time had passed.

She instinctively let out a soft “Oh dear,” and reached for her waist—after sitting for so long, her old back and legs should have been protesting.

However, the anticipated aches and numbness never came.

She pushed herself up by the edge of the desk.

The lightness of her movement surprised even herself; her knees and lumbar spine offered a long-lost smoothness, a sensation unique to young joints, as if rusted gears had suddenly been lubricated.

She tentatively took a few steps, moving from the bedroom to the living room.

The cotton skirt swayed gently with her stride, brushing against her calves, a touch both unfamiliar and soft.

Her feet made only a soft sound on the light wooden floor.

Passing the pot of pothos, she unconsciously touched a trailing vine; the leaves felt cool to the touch.

Finally, she stopped before the sofa, looking down at her own fair, slender, and wrinkle-free hands.

Then she raised her eyes to the empty living room, shaking her head with a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

Right, she was now inhabiting the body of an eighteen-year-old girl.

It was healthy, flexible, and filled with a quiet vitality she had long forgotten.

She slowly settled onto the sofa.

Yet, even this small movement startled Xiao Ming, who had curled into a ball on the sofa, its fluffy tail covering its nose as it dozed.

It shot up instantly, its ears perked like sensitive antennae, its ruby-like eyes still holding a hint of startled confusion, along with the habitual vigilance born from long experience: “What’s wrong? Is there a situation?”

“…Nothing, I just, sat for too long.”

Su Xinxin watched its startled, combat-ready demeanor, and the gloomy ripples in her heart softened, replaced by a faint warmth.

She reached out, her palm naturally resting on its warm, fluffy head, her fingers sinking into its soft, dense fur as she gently kneaded it.

“Hey, hey! Warning! I’m not a demonic creature; don’t look at me with such loving eyes, as if you’re about to purify me next second! And I’m not a pet, but rather… a partner of justice!”

Xiao Ming shrank its neck, leaning back slightly, grumbling protests, yet its fluffy head honestly nudged into her warm palm.

“Pfft…” Su Xinxin’s usually expressionless face finally broke into a faint, yet genuine, smile at its comical antics.

“Excellent, excellent,” Xiao Ming immediately seized the opportunity, adopting a mature air.

“It seems the old man… cough, Miss Su is adapting quite quickly!

Our partnership has a bright future ahead!”

This distraction lightened the mood.

However, Su Xinxin recalled the daytime test, and the lingering question resurfaced in her mind.

“Xiao Ming,” she began, deliberating her words, “Was what I did today… considered powerful?”

“Huh? Why the sudden question?” Xiao Ming blinked.

“I just feel,” Su Xinxin chose her words carefully, “the transformation’s spectacle, and the light during purification… isn’t it a bit too, too flashy?

If my abilities are truly good, will I be able to work more efficiently in the future?”

She hadn’t quite brought herself to directly ask, “Will the bonus be higher?”

Xiao Ming’s two front paws unconsciously rubbed together, its gaze becoming evasive: “Well… can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“Uh… first of all, your fundamental qualities are definitely excellent! Your soul is clear, your will is pure—these are very valuable traits!” Xiao Ming started with praise, then lowered its voice.

“However… well, the transformation effects and light shows have indeed undergone… hmm, ‘artistic processing.’

It’s part of our promotional strategy, to make this job seem more… hmm, more appealing.

After all, if we directly say you’ll be fighting very scary monsters, it might scare off newcomers.”

Su Xinxin was silent for two seconds, then slowly said, “Is this considered… false advertising? Excessive packaging? Or defrauding the elderly?

Can I go to… the relevant authorities to complain?”

Xiao Ming froze, then silently buried its face in its fluffy tail, pretending it didn’t exist.

Su Xinxin wasn’t truly intent on pursuing the matter.

However, her gaze involuntarily fell upon the pair of suspended silver rings again.

Xiao Ming seemed to sense her scrutiny and slowly lowered its tail, revealing its eyes to look at her.

Its long ears twitched gently, and the silver rings swayed with its movement, then stably hovered beside its earlobes, always maintaining that subtle gap, exquisite like a work of art, yet emanating an inexplicable mystery.

This gaze seemed to trigger a certain “stress response” in Xiao Ming.

It seemed to sense something, then suddenly looked up, speaking rapidly as if reciting a prepared statement:

“Uh, these rings! They’re just decorative! Purely decorative! While they might look a bit like certain… uh, widely circulated guide creatures in magical girl-related works, we are completely different!

It’s our Hua Ling’s auxiliary core and identity marker!

We are professional auxiliary spirits from a legitimate organization, with a complete management system and emotional modules, designed to provide comprehensive, reliable, and humanized service support to contractors!”

Su Xinxin was taken aback by its sudden, jargon-filled official declaration and tilted her head slightly: “Works…? Are those… comics and cartoons that children watch?”

Xiao Ming froze.

It belatedly remembered that the “core” of the person before it was a seventy-year-old elder, whose daily life was probably far removed from the world of anime.

Its standardized rhetoric, meant for questioning young candidates, was entirely misdirected.

Recalling past experiences of being mistaken for a “suspicious contracted creature,” being disliked, questioned relentlessly, and even chased and hit, Xiao Ming was momentarily speechless, its ears and tail drooping, looking somewhat dejected.

Its silence, however, cast an even deeper shadow in Su Xinxin’s heart.

She quietly observed the small creature before her, her gaze devoid of aggressive scrutiny, holding only the seasoned inquiry and consideration of an elder.

“Not speaking now?” Her voice remained calm. “It seems… there truly is something you can’t say?”

“No! You’ve really misunderstood!” Xiao Ming’s ears flapped wildly in distress; it knew its explanation had only deepened the misunderstanding.

“I just… I’ve encountered this situation too many times before, it’s a bit of a conditioned reflex… I’m absolutely not that… that cold, unfeeling entity in the lore, existing only to achieve some goal!”

Su Xinxin watched its frantic state, refraining from pressing further.

She simply leaned back against the chair, her gaze fixed on the deep night outside the window, and asked in a steady, clear voice,

“Then if… I now feel that this might not be suitable for me, and I wish to terminate the contract, is it still possible?”