The first thing Xing Fei noticed was the smell. Not the faint, citrus scent of her air purifier, nor the lingering aroma of last night's takeout, but something entirely different. It was a layered scent—old wood polished to a soft sheen and a delicate hint of sandalwood incense that curled in the air like a forgotten memory.
Her eyes fluttered open, but the sight made no sense.
Instead of the familiar, white ceiling with a ceiling fan of her uni dorm room, she was looking up at a dark, exposed beam. A lattice of woven bamboo formed the ceiling, and a single, fat paper lantern, now extinguished, hung from the central beam. Pale morning light filtered through the slits of a wooden window screen, painting stripes of gold on the floor.
She sat up slowly, the movement accompanied by a soft rustle. She looked down at herself. Her comfortable cotton pajamas were gone. In their place was a set of clothes of fine, sturdy cotton. The top was a soft sage green jacket its cross-collar fastened with a discreet cloth tie. The sleeves were wide but practical, falling back to reveal her wrists. Her gaze traveled downward to the skirt. It was a deep, warm tea-brown, a mǎmiàn style constructed of multiple panels that fell from her waist in elegant pleats. As she shifted, the skirt moved with a soft, weighty swish. The hem was edged with a simple, embroidered border of twisting vines in a dark green thread.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across her face.
This wasn't her bed. This wasn't her room. This wasn't even her century, if the architecture and the clothes were anything to go by.
But that made Xing Fei feel a thrill, a pure, unadulterated jolt of excitement that started in her chest and spread to her fingertips.
She had lived coutless lives in the pages of historical fantasy and xianxia. Those stories were her life saver in the moment of stress, sadness or melancholia. Everytime her life felt too dark, she dived into a new story trying to find herself in that world.
So, it felt so dreamy, unreal to feel alive in an ancient world. But who cares if It's real or not, what Xing Fei actually wants is to live a life that she always wanted, to explore the world, to breath in a peaceful life surrounded by nature.
She swung her legs out of the low, wooden bed frame, her bare feet meeting the cool, smooth planks of the floor. The room was small and sparsely furnished: the bed, a low wooden table with a ceramic water pitcher and bowl, and a simple changing screen painted with a mountain landscape. It was all real, solid, undeniably there.
She padded to the window and pushed the wooden lattice open. The world outside was a watercolor painting come to life. A cobblestone street, still damp with morning dew, wound between buildings with swooping, tiled roofs. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the distant sounds of a market coming to life—the call of a vendor, the clatter of cart wheels, the low murmur of a waking town. People moved below, dressed in robes of hemp and silk, their hair styled in knots and braids. There was no glass in the windows, no hum of electricity, no scent of exhaust fumes.
It was perfect.