"In recent years, having witnessed the terrifying consequences of time travel, many researchers around the world—including myself—proposed terminating the project. A month ago, the motion was passed. Humanity finally agreed to accept the present and no longer attempt to control time. So a month ago, the researchers on the moon received orders to permanently shut down the time machine."
"If that disaster hadn't occurred, my son would have returned safely to Earth by now. The disaster meant that even if they survived, they could never return to Earth. For the sake of all humanity's safety, there was no choice but to exile them. Humanity won't be able to land on the moon again for a century."
I had no time to feel shock—I could only stare blankly and say, "So you're telling me—the researchers on the moon endured the ray disaster, were then exiled by Earth with all communications cut off. If they were still alive, marooned in space, able to see the blue planet they once lived on but unable to return, isolated and without help, their only option for rescue would be to use the time machine?"
"So the earth in the WeChat startup image—this 'Blue Marble' earth photograph—was really taken by Rowan Luo in 2022? To send a distress signal, he activated time travel, crossed back fifty years to 1972, and replaced the original Apollo 17 'Blue Marble' photo with this modern one!"
Thinking of the terrible predicament Rowan Luo was in, I nearly broke down.
Even crossing through time and space to call for help, even using such a grand method of distress signaling, it remained pathetically feeble. Because his actions had been anticipated from the very start of the time project—the rules had been designed to prevent exactly this. He couldn't cross fifty years to save himself; fifty years ago, the project hadn't even existed yet. What's more, a second layer of insurance had been activated—the entire research operation had been moved to the barren moon, to the vast emptiness of space. Tiny human beings could alter pitifully little in the cosmos. The moral hazard of the researchers had been driven infinitesimally close to zero.
Rowan Luo was the little figure on the WeChat startup page. He could only stand on the moon gazing at the earth, gazing in vain at the blue planet he was destined never to return to.
How could there be such a solitary scene.
My heart seized with pain. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, and I choked out, "He had no way to save himself directly. He could only send a message... using something that could endure across half a century—the 'Blue Marble' earth photograph—to transmit his cry for help..."
I burst into sobs. Though I'd always had a vague premonition, having it confirmed at this moment still brought overwhelming grief.
"No, you're thinking about it wrong." Rowan's father shook his head and handed me a tissue. "You must understand that his cry for help would have been fruitless—even if rescue had been possible, he could only rescue himself. Because he was the one controlling time, while we exist only in the ceaseless flow of history. We can't save him; we can only passively accept all outcomes."
"My son Rowan Luo was an extremely rational person. Even if he violated regulations and activated time travel without authorization, he would never have done something so futile."
I protested tearfully, "That's impossible. Then why did he do it at all?"
Rowan's father said, "Miss Xiang, it's clear that you care deeply for Rowan Luo. Otherwise, you wouldn't have held onto this obsession for ten years or found your way here, let alone cracked such a difficult spacetime puzzle. You must have expressed your feelings back then, but Rowan Luo gave you no response, isn't that right? Let me apologize on behalf of my son, and I'll tell you the reason he did what he did."
"If he traveled through time merely to call for help, it would have been meaningless—because there was a fifty-year gap, he couldn't convey much information, and the method he used would have been incomprehensible to anyone from 1972 to the present day. The reason he did it was because it was never a distress signal—it was..." Rowan's father inhaled deeply, "a confession."
I froze. "What did you say?"
"A confession. Miss Xiang, you discovered the secret in this image, which may have been destined. But you haven't cracked the hidden code within 'Blue Marble.' Have you ever looked at the WeChat startup image and wondered—what part of the earth is that little figure on the moon looking at?"
I stammered, "He's looking at the center of the earth."
"Exactly," Rowan's father said. "The center of the earth in 'Blue Marble' should logically fall on Africa, but instead it falls on China. More specifically, our space agency pinpointed the exact coordinates from the high-resolution original photo: 122.4° East, 30.1° North. Meridian Island."
My eyes widened through my tears.
Meridian Island.
It was just a tourist spot near my hometown. It was just... the last group activity invitation I'd given Rowan Luo at the end of our second year of high school.
"If you still don't believe it wasn't a distress signal, the second strange incident from that year will prove it conclusively. In 1972, when Apollo 17 was on the moon, their communications went dead for a brief period. During that interruption, a fragmented sentence came through. The Americans couldn't understand it; my father caught the general meaning but could never make sense of it. It wasn't until you told me your full name just now that everything clicked into place. The words transmitted from the moon in 1972 were:
"'Celine, I want to go to Meridian Island with you.'"
My mind went blank.
Rowan's father continued, "I don't know if Rowan Luo had any chance of survival. But in that situation, he did the only thing he could. On December 7, 2022, he activated time travel without authorization and crossed back fifty years, using Apollo 17's presence on the moon that day to transmit those two messages. He directly altered the worldline, creating an impact that spanned half a century and radiates to this day. He even exposed his own voice to deliver the message, a serious violation of regulations—yet what he said was, in my view, an inconsequential remark."
Rowan's father's voice trembled. "But now I understand him. As his father, I feel profound guilt. The mission forced upon him by our family oppressed him for too long, ultimately driving him down a path of no return. Even in death, he cannot return home. Even if he miraculously survived, he would be exiled in the vast cosmos, eventually dying on the moon. So from the moment communications with Earth were severed until the day he truly passed, every moment was his dying breath."
"In his final hours, he wanted to make amends for the single greatest regret of his life. That regret had nothing to do with his parents, nothing to do with anyone else—this was the most heartbreaking part. My son had no words he wanted to leave me—he only cared about one thing. Miss Xiang, ten years ago, when Rowan Luo was studying at your high school, did you invite him to go to Meridian Island?"
I wept uncontrollably.
Yes.
Every time there was a group activity, I would invite him. When he was about to transfer schools, I asked him, "Rowan Luo, do you want to come with us to Meridian Island?"
I said, "Rowan Luo, the semester's almost over. You've only been at this school for a year, and you haven't joined a single class activity. Please come this last time, okay?"
Rowan Luo, just like every time before, ignored me. Not long after, he transferred away.
But ten years later, exiled on the moon in 2022, he stood there gazing from afar at Meridian Island, at exactly the right moment, capturing that earth photograph whose center fell at 122.4° East, 30.1° North. He activated the moon's time machine and crossed half a century—just to give a belated response to my high school invitation from ten years ago.
It wasn't even late—it was early. In 2012, I asked him, "Do you want to come with us to Meridian Island?" In 1972, he answered, "Celine, I want to go to Meridian Island with you." His response preceded my invitation by forty years, yet persisted through the secretly swapped photograph for ten years after. The "Blue Marble" earth photograph that had circulated for half a century, the WeChat startup page that had been used for a decade—all of it was his response to me.
For years, countless times I opened WeChat, that common, ordinary "little person looking at the earth" screen that accompanied me day and night—it was always him. He stood in the desolate, boundless space beyond Earth, gazing at Meridian Island on the blue planet below.
He spent half a century making up for the year in high school when he didn't acknowledge me.
Rowan Luo.
I covered my face and sobbed.
Why like that?
2. Rowan Luo
Because that was my way of winning you back and confessing.
Those were the last words that surfaced in my mind. I lay down in the hibernation pod.
Thinking back to two years ago, shortly after arriving on the moon, I began having hallucinations.
One day I passed a lunar crater and saw a girl in the center of the barren depression. She waved at me, "Rowan Luo, good afternoon! Come help us find the tennis ball! Ours fell into the crater—"
I ran toward her, but because of the moon's low gravity, I nearly took flight. Amid the dust clouds, I tumbled to the bottom of the crater, only to find it had all been an illusion.
How strange.