I was wandering around in the mountains with two friends. It was almost 7 PM, getting dark, when it finally occurred to us that staying out there might not be such a great idea. We should probably hurry back down. Just then, I noticed what looked like a large wooden building behind some trees not far ahead. If we could spend the night there, I thought, we wouldn’t have to rush down the mountain in the dark. So I called the other two over, and we went to investigate.

It was a tall wooden structure, almost like an old assembly hall, with a pair of enormous doors. The place was somewhat run-down, with weeds growing here and there, though someone appeared to have made a halfhearted attempt at clearing them. One of the doors was partly open. There was plenty of natural light inside. We called out several times, got no answer, and let ourselves in.

The main hall was huge and mostly empty, apart from a few tables and chairs along the walls. To the right, a wooden staircase led up to a loft. Naturally, I got curious and started climbing. Halfway up, I heard something moving above me. I looked up and saw a husky poking its head out, staring straight at me. Gray fur, not particularly good-looking. I was just about to say hello when something suddenly clicked in my head. My throat tightened. A chill shot through my entire body. I vaulted over the stair railing, landed on the floor below, and screamed at my friends:

“Gun! Gun! Give me the gun! There’s a wolf!”

One of them went pale and immediately pulled out a Luger and handed it to me, though he had absolutely no idea where the wolf was. I chambered a round and aimed at the top of the stairs. And somehow, in that split second, I still found time to complain to myself about the Luger’s safety operating in the opposite direction from what I’d expect. The husky — no, the wolf — stuck its head out between the railings. At that point, I couldn’t care less whether there were wildlife protection laws in this part of the world. I pulled the trigger.

“Click.”

The Luger misfired.

I could feel the blood pounding through my entire body. I stood there frozen, gun raised, not daring to move. Was I waiting for a hangfire? Hoping the animal might recognize the object in my hands? Wondering why it didn’t have a pack with it? Or questioning how on earth there could be a wolf in this place? I honestly don’t know.

Then the wolf shook its head. It raised a front paw and made a gesture that looked like someone offering food. Then it moved the paw toward its muzzle, as if holding a bowl and drinking from it. It repeated the sequence three times. And finally, I understood. This wolf had been raised by a human. All the tension drained out of me. I lowered the gun, though I still didn’t dare move.

Seeing that I’d lowered the weapon, the wolf shook its head again, then slowly collapsed onto the stairs. It didn’t move. The three of us stood there holding our breath for what felt like a century. The wolf never got back up. Eventually, I gathered enough courage to climb the stairs and approach it. I gently stroked the back of its neck. No response.

But something felt strange about its fur. The texture was wrong. I examined it more carefully, running my fingers through it, looking closely. I was absolutely certain it wasn’t natural. A rather outrageous possibility occurred to me, though I could hardly believe it myself. I tried to lift the wolf so it wouldn’t have to lie awkwardly across the wooden steps. And nearly lost my balance. It was much, much lighter than I’d expected. That made my ridiculous theory seem a little less ridiculous.

I picked it up, called out loudly a couple more times, and, still getting no answer, carried it into the room behind the loft. It appeared to be a combined living and working space. Along the windowed wall and around the adjoining corner was a large L-shaped wooden sleeping platform, somewhat higher than a traditional Chinese kang. It was raised off the floor, with blankets of some unfamiliar material both on top and underneath. My guess was that the human slept above, and the wolf slept below.

On the uncovered section of the platform sat an open laptop, playing a livestream with the sound muted. Most of the comments were in Korean. From what I could see, the stream appeared to have something to do with financial trading. Behind the laptop was another machine, probably a computer, still powered on. A small monitor next to it was dark. There was also a fire basin in the middle of the room. Some ashes and embers remained, but no flame. It wasn’t really cold enough to need one anyway.

I tried to put the wolf down underneath the sleeping platform, where I assumed it normally slept. That’s when I noticed the scratches. There were lots of thin marks on the inner wall, beneath the platform. They looked oddly regular. I leaned in for a closer look. They weren’t random scratches. They were characters. Chinese characters! Crooked, clumsy, and barely legible, but unmistakably Chinese.

What did they say?

“I miss you so much.”

“When are you coming back?”

“The investment portfolio has grown more than 140 times. Would that make you happy?”

…

I could barely contain my excitement. Forget manners. I started rummaging through the scattered paper notebooks underneath the corner of the platform, turning pages as fast as I could. My friends, who had stayed outside the room, were calling my name anxiously. I didn’t hear a word.

And then, finally, I understood.

The man who had lived here had once been engaged to someone. After his fiancée left him — the notebooks never made clear whether she had gone away or died — he wandered into the mountains alone. Somehow, he came across an orphaned wolf cub and took it in. He built this house in the mountains. What he did for a living, how he survived out here, all those things… Not important.

What mattered was that he loved the wolf. And eventually, he couldn’t bear the thought that wolves only live for a dozen years or so. So he cyberized it.

Yes. My ridiculous theory was right. The artificial fur on its back was actually part of a solar energy harvesting system, with multiple power sources. That probably explained why the wolf had collapsed earlier. Its energy storage system wasn’t doing too well, and our arrival might have interrupted its charging.

The notebooks told me quite a lot, but every dated entry stopped more than three years ago. Nothing after that. Not a single update. The wolf couldn’t find its human companion either. I supposed the man must have deliberately disappeared without leaving any trace.

And then it hit me. A strange sourness rose from my stomach, and an overwhelming sadness filled my chest.

I suddenly woke up. I was lying in my bed in Shenzhen. It was 5:22 AM.