Susan started exploring the app too.

  At first, she was just searching for items she wanted to order.

  Then, she searched for something she'd lost a while back. And it actually worked.

  "Lin." She called out.

  Lin was at his computer, screen full of dense code scrolling by.

  He recently took on a part-time job optimizing backend data for a small company, and has already stayed up for two nights straight.

  "Look at this." Susan handed him the phone. "Lost stuff. It delivers lost stuff too."

  Lin took it. Glanced. "Lost stuff? What do you mean?"

  "Try it," Susan said. "Remember that wedding ring you lost six months ago? The one you couldn't find anywhere?"

  Lin blinked.

  That ring was their fifth anniversary gift. Cost over eight hundred bucks.

  Six months ago, at the gym. He'd put it in his locker.

  When he came back. Gone.

  He'd torn the place apart. Checked the cameras—but the locker room was a blind spot. Eventually, he just accepted it. Susan had been pissed. Said he didn't care enough.

  "You're saying..." Lin looked at the search bar. "This app can find lost stuff?"

  "Won't hurt to try." Susan shrugged. "Just search it."

  Lin hesitated. Then typed:

  Platinum ring, men's. Engraved inside: "Lin ? Susan 2017.5.20"

  Hit search.

  Page jumped. An image appeared.

  His ring.

  White background. Close-up shot. The engraving was clear.

  Price: $0. Below it, the same gray text: *"+ $10 delivery fee. Total: $10."*

  Lin's throat went dry. "That's... how?"

  "Just order it." Susan said.

  Lin's finger hovered over the screen.

  His gut screamed: Wrong. This is wrong.

  A food delivery app. Finding a unique ring lost six months ago?

  But something else—stronger—pushed back. What if it's real?

  He tapped Place Order.

  Payment screen. Ten bucks.

  Fingerprint confirm.

  The pop-up barely appeared before the doorbell rang.

  Thirteen seconds.

  Lin shot up from his chair. Knee slammed the desk corner. Didn't feel it. He was already at the door.

  Susan followed. Breathing faster now.

  Hallway light: dead.

  Through the peephole—red vest. The girl.

  Lin opened the door.

  Took the box.

  Opened it.

  Platinum ring.

  He picked it up. Turned it. Looked inside.

  "Lin ? Susan 2017.5.20"

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Every stroke. Every letter. Exactly as he remembered.

  The depth of the engraving. The tiny wear marks on the edges. Even one flaw—a tiny slip from the engraving machine when it was made. He'd never told anyone about that. Not even Susan.

  "It's real." Lin's voice cracked. "This is my ring."

  Susan took it from him. Held it to the light.

  Real.

  They stood there. Silent.

  "Try again." Susan's voice was sharp.

  Lin looked at her. "Try what?"

  "Something..." Susan took the phone back. Her finger paused over the search bar. "Something impossible."

  "When I was a kid, I had this stuffed rabbit. Called it 'Gray Ears.' Lost it when I was eight. Moving company lost it."

  She typed:

  Gray stuffed rabbit. Right ear has visible stitch marks. Cotton filling. About 12 inches tall. Name: "Gray Ears."

  Page jumped. An image appeared.

  A worn gray rabbit. Right ear had visible stitching—crooked, hand-sewn. One glass eye was loose. Price: $0. Delivery: $10.

  Susan's fingers trembled.

  She tapped Order. Paid.

  Fast. Like she was afraid she'd change her mind.

  Doorbell rang.

  Thirteen seconds.

  This time, Susan answered it.

  Red-vest girl. Handed over a clear ziplock bag.

  Inside: the rabbit from the picture.

  Susan took it. The girl turned. Left. Same as always.

  Susan closed the door. Walked back to the living room.

  Opened the bag. Pulled out the rabbit.

  The fabric was old. Washed pale. But the color—her memory—was right.

  She flipped it over. Found a faded spot on the back. Spilled juice when she was five. Never washed out.

  The stitching on the ear? Her grandmother's work. Rough. But solid.

  The loose eye? Same as the last night she'd held it. Before it disappeared.

  "How?" Susan's voice was small. "How did it find this?"

  "This app," Lin said slowly. "It's not 'delivering' things. It's... retrieving. From the past. Or somewhere we don't know. Bringing back things that shouldn't exist anymore."

  "Then can it—" Susan's head snapped up. Her eyes had something Lin had never seen. Hope. And something else. Something almost crazy. "Can it bring back people?"

  Lin's stomach dropped.

  "Susan. Don't."

  "I'm not don't-ing." Susan clutched the rabbit.

  "My mom. She's been gone three years. Lung cancer. From diagnosis to... gone. Six months. I was there at the end. She held my hand. Said I was the one she worried about most."

  She grabbed the phone again. Opened the search bar.

  Fingers hovered. Then typed:

  Diana. Female. Deceased. Age 58 at death. Height 5'4". Weight approx 110 lbs. Small mole above left eyebrow. Old fracture scar on right wrist.

  With every word, Lin's heart sank further.

  He wanted to stop her. Say it was insane.

  The dead don't come back. No app—no matter how weird—could do that.

  But the words stuck in his throat.

  Because he knew: In a world where this app existed, where physics didn't matter anymore—maybe death wasn't a wall either.

  Susan hit search.

  Page jumped. No image. Just text:

  Diana (Deceased)

  Price: $0.

  Below it—the small text had changed color. From gray to blood red:

  *"+ Delivery fee: $10,000,000. Total: $10,000,000."

  Susan stared at the number. Unblinking. For a long time.

  Then slowly put the phone down. The rabbit slid off her lap onto the sofa.

  "$10,000,000..." she whispered. "We don't have that."

  Lin picked up the phone. Looked at the number.

  Seven zeros. A canyon they couldn't cross.

  He tried tapping Place Order. Pop-up: "Insufficient funds. Cannot complete payment."

  "Why?" Susan's voice cracked. "Why ten bucks for the ring? Ten for the rabbit? But my mom... $10,000,000?"

  Lin didn't know.

  But he knew the answer was somewhere in the app.

  He sat back at the computer. Opened the "13Seconds" install package—the one he'd examined a hundred times.

  Before, he'd tried tracing the server. Every data stream led to an IP that didn't resolve. Appeared from nowhere. Disappeared the same way.

  But now? New clues.

  He started writing scripts. Simulating searches. Orders. Recording the data the server sent back. The ring. The rabbit. Susan's mom.

  He tested other things too: Keys lost last week. An old phone thrown away last year.

  The hamster he'd had as a kid. Died young.

  Lin dumped everything into a spreadsheet. Looked for patterns.

  Keys: $10 delivery.

  Old phone: $10 delivery.

  Deceased hamster: $310 delivery.

  He blinked at that one.

  Why 310? He thought back. Bought it at a pet store for $30 when he was in elementary school. Had it for two years. It died.

  $300? No. $30 times 10 is 300. Plus the base $10 delivery fee equals $310.

  A guess started forming.

  He typed in Susan's mom's name again.

  Asked Susan: What did she do?

  Private kindergarten teacher.

  Susan said she made about $100k a year before retirement.

  Ten million divided by a hundred is $100k.

  So the formula emerges:

  Inanimate lost objects: Delivery fee = $10.

  Deceased animals (pets): Delivery fee = (Original purchase price or value? He used $30 * 10) + $10 base? Actually his test showed $310, so it seems (original cost * 10) + $10. But he didn't test a stray animal with no cost. Let's stick to what he found: hamster cost $30, fee $310 = ($30*10) + $10.

  Deceased humans: Delivery fee = (Annual income at time of death * 100). The total was $10,000,000 for a $100k salary person. So $100,000 * 100 = $10,000,000.

  Lin seemed to understand.

  If you want to retrieve a lost item, pay the base fee.

  If you want to retrieve a lost animal, pay (original value × 10) + base fee.

  If you want to retrieve a deceased person, pay (their annual income × 100).

  Lin told Susan this at 3 AM.

  "So in its eyes," Susan looked at the gray rabbit on the sofa, "

  life has a price tag. A person's price is what they earned in a year. Times a hundred."

  Lin said nothing.

  He couldn't argue. The data was clean. The app's logic was cold. But consistent.

  "So my mom is ten million," Susan continued. "Because she made a hundred thousand a year. If some CEO making a million a year wanted their dead wife back? A hundred million. If it's a homeless person who made nothing? Free?"

  "I don't know," Lin said. "I didn't test that."

  Susan laughed. Soft. No humor in it.

  "So fair. Even in death, priced by your paycheck. The poor are cheap to bring back. The rich pay a fortune. But to them? A fortune might be nothing."