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墨書 Inktalez
The conference hall of the Neuroscience Research Center was filled to capacity—representatives from investment firms, medical experts, psychologists, and even a few government officials. As I entered the room, all eyes turned to me. I was the lead researcher on this project, and today’s presentation would determine whether we would secure the next round of funding.
Professor Lin nodded and smiled at me before beginning her introduction. I glanced at the prepared slides but found my attention continually drawn to the piece of paper in my pocket. Who is Alice? Why did Lily draw her standing next to me?
“Dr. Anna Chen’s memory restoration technology demonstrates unprecedented potential,” Professor Lin’s voice pulled me back to reality. “Her research not only aids patients with post-traumatic stress disorder but could also fundamentally change our understanding of memory formation and modification.”
It was my turn to speak. I stepped up to the podium, took a deep breath, and slipped into my familiar professional mode.
“Memory is not static,” I began, as brain scan images appeared on the screen. “They are dynamic constructs that are re-integrated each time they are recalled. Our technology leverages this characteristic—not to erase traumatic memories but to re-integrate them—alleviating suffering while preserving the value of experience.”
I clicked the remote, and the screen switched to a set of comparative images. “This shows the brain activity patterns of subject M-734 before and after treatment. Notice the significant changes in the connections between the amygdala and prefrontal cortex. This indicates that the traumatic memory has been successfully re-integrated, no longer triggering excessive activity in the emotional response center.”
As I delved into the technical details, an investment representative raised their hand to ask, “Are there any side effects associated with this process? For example, memory confusion or personality changes?”
The question struck a chord with me. “According to our data, no persistent side effects have been observed. Some subjects reported brief episodes of memory fog or slight identity uncertainty, but these symptoms typically resolve within 48 hours.”
“Typically?” the representative pressed.
I hesitated for a moment. “We do have one anomalous case—M-734 exhibited some… unusual reactions.”
The conference hall fell silent as everyone looked at me expectantly. I could feel Professor Lin’s anxious gaze.
“M-734 seemed to undergo a deeper level of memory reconstruction,” I carefully chose my words. “She reported feeling as though she was ‘simultaneously existing in two different realities.’ This state lasted about 72 hours before naturally subsiding. Follow-up scans indicated her brain function returned to normal, even showing improvement compared to before treatment.”
“What do you think this ‘dual reality’ perception is about?” a psychologist inquired.
Just as I was about to respond, a sudden wave of intense headache washed over me. The conference hall seemed to twist and distort; I caught a glimpse of a blurred image—another laboratory, another machine, another ‘me’ looking down at some kind of device. The vision lasted only a second before vanishing.
“Dr. Anna?” Professor Lin’s concerned voice pulled me back to reality.
“I’m sorry,” I said, striving to steady myself. “I believe this phenomenon may relate to the temporary dissociation of personality integration. Trauma often leads to fragmentation of identity; during our treatment process, these fragments can be activated simultaneously, potentially creating a sense of dual perception before re-integration occurs.”
I continued with my presentation, answering more technical questions, but my inner unease grew stronger. What was that fleeting image? Why was there another ‘me’? Did it connect with Lily’s dream and her drawing of Alice?
After the presentation concluded, Professor Lin excitedly informed me that the investors were very pleased with our project and were almost certain to approve the next round of funding. But I barely registered her words; my thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
“Anna, are you alright?” Professor Lin asked with concern. “You seemed a bit distracted today.”
“Just a slight headache,” I forced a smile. “Probably just nerves.”
“You should take a break,” she suggested. “Go pick up Lily from school and relax at home. We can discuss the follow-up plans tomorrow.”
I nodded, grateful for her thoughtfulness. But as I walked toward the parking lot, a decision formed in my mind—I needed to find out who Alice was before picking up Lily this afternoon.
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