It was a bright day.
Not the gentle kind of brightness that brushed softly against the skin, but the bold, unapologetic glare of summer. The sky was clear, washed clean of clouds, and the sun hung high and proud, spilling its warmth onto everything beneath it.
Summer had always been like that.
Beautiful—and unbearable.
Children often loved it. To them, the sun looked happy, endlessly smiling down from above, generous with its light. But to those who lived beneath it, who walked its streets and worked its hours, that happiness could feel suffocating. The heat clung stubbornly to skin and fabric alike, making even the smallest movement feel laborious.
Yet whether loved or hated, summer was always bright.
And today, the sun was at its brightest.
A sharp, frantic chime rang through the air—small, metallic, insistent. The kind of bell tied to a restaurant door, meant to politely announce a customer's arrival, now ringing as though someone had lost all sense of restraint.
Not far away, at the far end of the street, a Catholic chapel rang its morning bell.
The sound rolled outward, deep and resonant, threading through the village like a quiet declaration that the day had begun.
The village itself was already alive.
Vendors lined the streets, voices raised high as they shouted prices and praises, competing loudly for attention. Some hawked fresh produce, others waved skewers of food still steaming in the heat. A few customers paused, bargaining fiercely, while others passed by without so much as a glance—too busy, too familiar with the routine to be swayed.
High school students wandered through the market in small clusters, uniforms slightly disheveled, bags slung lazily over their shoulders. Some stopped at a sweet shop, pooling together coins to buy candy and iced treats. Others lingered in front of makeup and jewelry stores, peering at reflections in glass displays.
"How's this one?"
"Wow—Ah Xing, this looks beautiful on you!"
"Our transfer student is so handsome. I want to look good today."
Laughter bubbled easily.
It wasn't just high school chatter—office workers passed by too, murmuring about deadlines, gossiping softly, checking their watches as they walked. The world moved on in its ordinary rhythm, unaware of how precious such normalcy truly was.
Deeper into the market, the butcher shop bustled loudly.
Voices rose in argument over the price of meat, sharp and animated. Behind the counter, slabs of red hung neatly, catching the light. Chickens clucked loudly from their cages, feathers fluffed, wings flapping in frantic protest—as if determination alone could break iron bars.
Some pecked angrily at the cage floor.
Others pecked calmly at grain in their troughs.
Some still believed in escape.
Others had long accepted their fate.
Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder along one side of the street—old concrete, faded paint, laundry hanging from balconies like colorful flags. In one of those buildings, behind drawn curtains and a closed window, lay a youth.
Still asleep.
Deeply, shamelessly asleep.
As though the day had no claim on him.
"Er'er! Wake up!" a woman's voice rang out from downstairs, sharp and practiced.
"You're going to be late for your first day of school!"
Silence.
The youth groaned faintly, rolled over, and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
"Er'er!" she called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
By the third shout, irritation edged dangerously close to rage.
With a sigh heavy enough to shake the stairs, she marched upstairs, each step echoing her thinning patience. She pushed open the door—and in that exact moment, she regretted deeply that she hadn't brought her wooden spatula.
"Er'er," she said, forcing calm as she reached the bedside. "Wake up."
She shook him gently.
The youth groaned, words slurring into incoherent curses, face twisted in irritation rather than awareness.
Her eyebrow twitched.
She shook him again—harder.
"Wake—"
"Who's that bastard waking me up? Who the fu—"
Big mistake.
A very big one.
If the youth had been having a pleasant dream moments before, that dream evaporated instantly. His expression shifted in a fraction of a second—from irritation to dawning horror—as if some deep, buried instinct screamed a warning.
Even in his subconscious, a voice whispered clearly:
You're in trouble.
Before he could process a single coherent thought—
Smack!
The sound echoed crisply through the room.
Pain exploded across his cheek, sharp and undeniable.
With a speed he didn't know his body possessed, Er'er shot upright, spine straight, eyes wide open, sitting as rigid as a tree struck by lightning.
The summer sun streamed through the window.
The bell outside chimed again.
And somewhere, deep within him—beneath youth, beneath unfamiliar breath and heartbeat—something ancient stirred, confused and shaken awake in a body far too young for the weight it carried.
___
The first thing that registered was the face before him.
Not the room.
Not the sunlight.
Not the burning sting on his cheek.
The face.
It had been five years.
Five long, unbearable years since he had last seen this face—not in dreams, not in fleeting memories that softened with time, but in reality. In flesh and breath and warmth.
"Mom…?"
The word slipped out on its own, fragile and uncertain, as though saying it too loudly might cause her to vanish.
This was his mother.
The woman who had died just not long after he entered university as a freshman. The woman whose funeral he had stood through in stunned silence, whose ashes he had held in trembling hands. The woman whose absence had hollowed out his world long before life ever had the chance to rebuild it.
"What are you mom-ing me for?" she snapped, irritation flaring as she crossed her arms. "I've warned you not to—"
"How are you alive?"
The question burst out of him, raw and unfiltered.
It struck her like a slap.
She stared at him, stunned. "Are you wishing me dead now?" she demanded, bafflement and offense tangling in her voice.
"I would never," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Never. Mom… if this is a dream, I don't want to wake up."
His voice cracked.
"Mom, did—" He swallowed hard. "You're alive. You… you…"
Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, unstoppable, soaking into his collar and dripping onto the sheets. His body shook violently, grief and relief crashing together too hard for his heart to contain.
If there had been anger in her moments ago, it dissolved instantly.
Seeing her son cry like this—so broken, so desperate—washed it away without a trace.
She knelt in front of him at once, concern overtaking confusion. "Who hit you?" she asked urgently, her hands lifting to cup his face. "Was it your father? The neighbors?
Did someone bully you again?"
Her fingers brushed his cheek gently, soothing the sting left behind by her own hand.
And in that moment, he moved.
He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight, desperate embrace. Not the kind a child gives without thought, but the kind born from terror—of loss remembered too vividly.
So tight that she struggled to breathe.
Yet she didn't push him away.
She let him hold on.
"Mom…" His voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Why did you leave me?"
Her body stiffened slightly, but she remained still.
"Do you know how alone I was?" he continued, words spilling out in a rush, as if holding them back might kill him. "Five years… five years you were gone. You told me that night you'd come back. You told me—no matter what—you would come back."
His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes as though anchoring himself to reality.
"But you didn't," he whispered. "You left… and you never returned. Why?"
She drew slow, gentle circles against his back, instinctively soothing, even as confusion churned violently in her chest.
Was there a day I abandoned my son?
Her brows furrowed.
Five years? I left him for five years?
What was he talking about?
She didn't dare to ask—not yet. Not when his body trembled so violently in her arms, not when his sobs sounded like they came from someplace far older than his young body suggested.
He must have had a nightmare, she thought.
A terrible one.
One where she left.
One where she never came back.
So she held him.
She held him tightly, whispering soft reassurances into his hair, letting him cry as long as he needed—unaware that the son clinging to her was not just waking from sleep…
But from another life entirely.
___
If this was a dream, then Lian Yu did not want to wake up.
If waking meant returning to a world where his mother existed only as a cold photograph and fading incense smoke, then sleep—no matter how fragile—was mercy.
Seeing her first thing in the morning had to mean something. It had to mean she had seen how utterly ruined he was, how hollow his life had become, and had chosen to appear—even if only for a moment—to comfort him.
He knew dreams were cruel like that.
They gave you exactly what you wanted, only to tear it away the moment you reached for it.
But he didn't mind.
Not this time.
If his mother could appear, even as an illusion, then perhaps—just perhaps—Ciao Ren might too. The thought struck him so suddenly his chest tightened. His arms wrapped around his mother again, tighter this time, as if refusing to let go might bend reality itself.
Then he felt her shift slightly.
She cleared her throat.
"Er'er," she said gently, a note of caution in her voice. "I know you just had an unpleasant dream. A very bad one… where I might have died or abandoned you."
His grip stiffened.
"You didn't," he muttered hoarsely, voice low and shaking. "You were laid six feet away from me. Six feet under the earth. For five years…"
The room fell silent.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air.
Outside, distant vendors shouted, a bicycle bell chimed, life continuing in its mundane rhythm—utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside the boy sitting on the bed.
His mother paused.
Then she smiled.
It wasn't forced. It wasn't nervous. It was the warm, familiar smile that had once chased away every childhood nightmare he'd ever had.
"But I'm alive, my son," she said softly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
She patted his shoulder and stood. "Right now, you need to get ready. Or you'll make a bad impression. Just because you've graduated from high school doesn't mean I can't scold you. You still need to go to university."
…University?
The word echoed in his head like a dropped glass shattering on marble.
University?
That chapter of his life was ancient history. He had graduated with first-class honors. He had landed a prestigious job. He had built his own company with blood, sweat, and sleepless nights.
University was five years ago.
Then, as if struck by lightning, he grabbed her arm.
"But I've already graduated," he said quickly, eyes bright with urgency. "First-class upper. I did well. I'll show you the certificate—I can prove it."
She laughed, reaching out to pat his cheeks like she used to when he was younger. "Yes, yes. I know you're intelligent. You graduated top of your class, got into a good university. But now you need to show me you can do even better."
Her words washed over him—but something else hit harder.
The room.
The peeling wallpaper.
The familiar wooden wardrobe with a loose hinge.
The faint smell of detergent mixed with old books.
This was their old home.
His breath hitched.
"Mom," he said slowly, dread creeping into his tone. "Why are we back here?"
His fingers curled into the bedsheets. "This place is cursed."
She clicked her tongue softly. "Shh. Stop talking nonsense. Go wash up. Breakfast is on the table."
Still dazed, still unsteady, he allowed her to lead him out of the room.
Then his eyes landed on the calendar.
The numbers stared back at him, merciless and clear.
May 5th, 2021.
His heart stopped.
"2021…?" he whispered.
Five years ago.
The day he was supposed to begin his first year at university in the city.
"Mom," he asked carefully, fear creeping into his voice, "is the calendar mistaken?"
She glanced over. "Nope. Why?"
"It should be 2026," he said, louder now.
"2026!"
She turned to him fully, her brows knitting together.
"Er'er," she said slowly, concern replacing humor, "are you still stuck in that dream where I died and you're living in 2026? Check your phone. Ask around. This is 2021."
His hands trembled as he reached for his phone.
The date confirmed it.
The world tilted.
If this is really 2021…
His breath grew shallow.
Then…
"I traveled to the past?" he whispered, the words foreign and terrifying.
And if he truly had gone back—
Then Ciao Ren was alive.
His mother was alive.
Cici was alive.
They weren't names etched on gravestones yet. They weren't memories sharpened by regret.
They were still here.
His chest ached—not with grief this time, but with something dangerous.
Hope.
Somehow, without realizing it, he had gone back.
Whether it was fate, punishment, or mercy, he didn't know.
But one thing was certain—
This time, he would not let history repeat itself.
No matter the cost.