Judgment of the Digital Ghost

Li Wei felt that ever since he and Xiao Fang broke up, his desktop WeChat had turned into a malevolent ghost court, and he was the sole defendant, charged with "attempting to forget."

This metropolis, home to millions, had swallowed their love and was now trying to devour their individual futures. The breakup was peaceful, like the last autumn leaf quietly falling to the ground – no arguments, just a heavy, pervasive fatigue hanging in the air. They agreed not to contact each other, giving themselves time and space to digest the loneliness of the concrete jungle and the possibility of starting anew.

On his phone, Li Wei handled WeChat decisively. Chat history deleted, Moments permissions set – out of sight, out of mind. However, the problem lay with that damned desktop WeChat client. It was like a stubborn old butler refusing to acknowledge that the mistress of the house had left.

At first, it was just occasional glimpses of Xiao Fang's name and shared documents in the File Transfer Assistant's history, like faded old photographs. Li Wei frowned and clicked 'clear'. But a few days later, when he typed a work-related keyword into the search bar, Xiao Fang's profile picture and nickname brazenly popped up in the suggestions, accompanied by an emoji they used to use often, grinning thoughtlessly.

Li Wei felt the first chill. This wasn't just a cache issue; it felt like... a judgment. The cold algorithm seemed to mock his "peaceful breakup" as mere self-deception. He tried a more thorough cleanup: uninstalling and reinstalling, even going so far as to delete the entire local data folder.

Yet, the ghost remained. Sometimes, on the login screen, next to the "auto-login" option, Xiao Fang's profile picture outline would flash briefly, quick as an optical illusion. Other times, in a long-dormant group chat, someone would @everyone, and when the notification popped up, amidst the blurry stack of profile pictures in the background, he always thought he saw that familiar side profile. The most absurd instance was when the system recommended "People You May Know" and actually suggested one of Xiao Fang's distant cousins – someone he had met only once at a party and had never added on WeChat.

Li Wei began to feel a Kafkaesque absurdity. He felt as if he were in an invisible courtroom, being repeatedly reminded of his "crime" – having loved and then separated – by an unseen judge using procedures he didn't understand. This cold machine, this string of zeros and ones, seemed to possess a will of its own, insisting on rubbing salt into his healing wounds. Like K., he wandered through the labyrinthine city and program interfaces, unable to find his accuser or offer a defense.

He started losing sleep, spending longer and longer staring blankly at the computer screen. Outside the window, the neon lights shifted colors, reflecting on his weary face. Maybe, he thought, this was the rule of the big city: even breakups had to be digitally archived, recorded, and constantly reminded, until you either became completely numb or broke down. He even began to wonder if it was the same for Xiao Fang. No, she was so resolute; she must have cleaned everything up long ago. She was probably checking in at some trendy restaurant with new friends right now, smiling beautifully.

Another late weekend night, Li Wei decided on a final battle. He would completely format the computer, eradicating this digital ghost on a physical level. He backed up important work files, took a deep breath, and hovered the mouse pointer over the "Format C Drive" option. The vast silence of the city enveloped him, broken only by the soft whirring of the computer fan.

Just as he was about to click confirm, in the bottom right corner of the screen, the familiar yet estranged WeChat icon suddenly started flashing.

Not a group message, not a subscription account push, but an individual chat window.

It was Xiao Fang.

Her profile picture sat there quietly, like a seashell forgotten on the beach.

Li Wei's heart skipped a beat. Hesitantly, he clicked open the chat window.

A short line of text, carrying an unbelievable weariness and confusion, leaped into his view:

"Li Wei, your desktop WeChat... is it acting up too? It keeps popping up on its own, reminding me of our chat history, and... those files. I've deleted them several times."

Li Wei stared at the words, as if seeing Xiao Fang on the other side of the screen, sitting at her computer with the exact same confusion and helplessness. So, that stubborn, malevolent "digital ghost" wasn't haunting only him. It was like an inept matchmaker, using an almost cruel, Kafkaesque method to clumsily entangle two threads that were supposed to have been severed.

The so-called "judgment" was, surprisingly, mutual. Both he and she were trapped in the same absurd prison of memory, constructed from code.

He looked out at the still-flickering neon lights and suddenly felt that this cold city, and that equally cold program, seemed to be telling a story about connection, albeit in an extremely clumsy way.

Li Wei's finger left the mouse. He didn't reply to Xiao Fang's message, nor did he proceed with formatting the computer. He just sat there quietly, watching the flashing chat window, feeling for the first time that the digital ghost's existence might not be entirely malicious.

Perhaps this was just life itself – this vast labyrinth composed of countless coincidences, misunderstandings, cold rules, and faint traces of human feeling – offering yet another subtle reminder: before complete forgetting, some things will always echo in unexpected ways. Like the silent rain outside the window now, and that equally silent line of text on the screen.