1989, Los Angeles.
Affected by the monsoon, Los Angeles was unusually hot and dry that year.
The azure sky showed not even a single cloud; the only thing present was the scorching sea breeze.
On the cracked asphalt road, accompanied by the roar of an engine, a black Dodge Challenger pulled to a stop.
Next to it was a grayish-white wall, covered in vibrant green vines. A brown-black wooden board was nailed to the wall, and through a few green leaves, the words "Angel Orphanage" could vaguely be seen.
This was an Orphanage on the verge of closing. The Dean was a seventy-five-year-old White woman named Samantha. She liked to wear a long green dress and a washed-out White shirt.
Her favorite pastime was to pour herself a $48 bottle of red wine while listening to classic songs from the sixties, waiting for the cookies in the oven to bake, accompanied by the rhythm of her fingertips.
Whenever the music played, a smile would involuntarily appear on Mrs. Samantha's face.
When a child asked her why she was smiling, Mrs. Samantha wouldn't say. She would kiss the child's cheek and tell them that when they grew up, she would reveal the secret.
So the children of the Orphanage always hoped to grow up quickly.
But unfortunately, that was all a few years ago.
Three years ago, the Orphanage still had dozens of children. Relying on social donations and her own savings from these years, although it was difficult, Mrs. Samantha was like a fighter who would never be defeated.
She was tenacious, hardworking, and full of passion and smiles every day. She cared for dozens of children with two hundred percent of her love.
Suffering could not defeat her. This was a great woman; although she was not strong, she could fight against fate like a giant.
She proved with facts that no one could defeat her.
But unfortunately, illness could.
Mid-stage liver cancer, in modern society, is not an incurable disease, but in this era, in Los Angeles in 1986, for an old Dean running a private Orphanage, this medical record was no less than a death notice.
The Orphanage was not unable to continue operating, nor was it closing due to mismanagement.
It was just that decades of operation had long made Mrs. Samantha and the Orphanage one. Without Mrs. Samantha, the Orphanage was like a body without a soul.
Is there anyone in this World like her, willing to share the kindness in their heart?
Yes, but Mrs. Samantha was not sure if she could find that person in this restless society with the little time she had left.
So, starting three years ago, the children of the Orphanage were gradually adopted.
Now, in the Orphanage, besides Mrs. Samantha, there was only one child left named James Nixxon.
This was a boy, six years old this year. This child was intelligent, handsome, and very sensible.
If one were to be nitpicky and find a flaw in this child, it would be that he was relatively thin. Compared to his peers, he did not seem strong and healthy enough.
In fact, the last child in the Orphanage should not have been James Nixxon, but another girl named Daisy Johnson.
She was also a beautiful child, but Daisy was clearly not as intelligent and sensible as James Nixxon.
It was just that James was "sick" yesterday.
Mrs. Samantha had no choice but to send Daisy away.
Although that couple preferred the excellent James, the lovely Daisy seemed fine too.
Mrs. Samantha knew James's trick.
Sick?
Don't be silly. Although James was not strong, his physique was not as bad as imagined. And if James hadn't been "sick," Daisy would very likely have stayed in the Orphanage.
After all, she was not smart, and besides being quite pretty, she was almost useless.
This made Mrs. Samantha very relieved, and at the same time, she couldn't help but feel a little heartache.
In the narrow kitchen, Mrs. Samantha wiped the sweat from her forehead. The hot Los Angeles, and the rotating oven in the kitchen, made the seventy-five-year-old Mrs. Samantha feel tired. Fortunately, there were classic vinyl records from the sixties playing.
She poured herself a glass of red wine. According to common sense, liver cancer patients should not drink alcohol.
But she didn't care.
In fact, since being diagnosed with liver cancer three years ago, Mrs. Samantha had never been to the hospital even once.
She knew her path was coming to an end, but she was not panicked or despairing. Mrs. Samantha was very calm; she treated every day as the last day of her life.
Although her clothes were cheap, and her once beautiful youthful face was now covered in wrinkles, she was very composed.
Meanwhile, on the second floor of the Orphanage, James Nixxon, who had been lying on the bunk bed all night, now opened his eyes.
Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going?
The three ultimate philosophical questions of idealism left James looking dazed.
There were two memories in his mind: one was of a six-year-old boy, and the other was of a thirty-one-year-old man.
The boy had no parents since he was young. In his memory, it was an Orphanage Dean named Mrs. Samantha who took him in and cared for him as he grew up.
He respected her deeply and loved her very much. In the boy's eyes, Mrs. Samantha was his only family.
The thirty-one-year-old man was a successful person. He was very lucky, as if he had been kissed by the goddess of luck at birth.
From childhood to adulthood, he was not outstanding, but he was always slightly better than ordinary people.
His academic performance was like this, his ability to make friends was like this, his graduating university was like this, and his work situation was also like this.
Even his parents were healthier than other people's parents, and his children were smarter than his colleagues' children.
He was a little better than others in every aspect, but when all these came together, he was not wealthy, nor did he have great power, but he was truly happy, the kind that countless people envied!
The two memories merged.
It was impossible to distinguish who replaced whom, or who devoured whom.
In short, after a long night of fusion, this body named James Nixxon absorbed and integrated the two memories, finally forming a whole with the body.
"Knock, knock, knock!"
A knock at the door.
Mrs. Samantha walked in, holding an iron tray with James's favorite ladyfingers inside.
Ladyfingers are a very common Western cookie. In this era, almost every housewife knows how to make them.
But not many do it well. Mrs. Samantha is not an American; she is half-Italian, and Italy happens to be the birthplace of ladyfingers.
The ladyfingers she baked were crispy and soft, like dry sponge cake, and very sweet.
This had always been the favorite of all the children at the Orphanage.
Looking at James, whose eyes were curved into smiles because of the sweet cookies.
A flicker of tenderness crossed Mrs. Samantha's eyes. With her hands, covered in age spots and wrinkles, she wiped the cookie crumbs from the corner of James's mouth:
"There's more, there's more, no need to eat so fast. It's all yours. Have some milk."
A small glass, containing about 150ml of milk.
James took a sip. The sweet ladyfingers and milk mixed, forming a wonderful taste. In James's memory, this was the most delicious food in the World.
Putting down the milk glass, a delicate face, one year older than his own, subconsciously appeared in James's mind. A flicker of thought crossed his eyes: "Mrs. Samantha, where is Daisy?"
Daisy and James were the only two close children in the Orphanage. Their relationship was very good, or rather, Daisy and James's relationship was very good.
Unlike Daisy's reclusiveness and rebelliousness, the thin James naturally possessed an enviable affinity. He could chat openly with everyone in the Orphanage.
Mrs. Samantha's eyes flashed with a hint of guilt as she looked at James's tender face.
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