When Shen Anran tried to speak, the words never made it past her lips.
Something surged forward instead—sharp, sudden, unwelcome.
Her head throbbed violently, as if someone had slammed a door inside her skull. She gasped and grabbed the edge of the table, her fingers tightening instinctively as images that were not hers flooded her mind.
Fields.
Brown earth split into neat rows.
The smell of damp soil under a blazing sun.
A man's back, bent as he worked, sweat darkening the fabric of his shirt.
Her vision blurred.
She staggered, breath uneven, and squeezed her eyes shut.
"No… stop…"
But the memories didn't stop.
They forced their way in.
She saw herself—no, this body—standing at the edge of a field, her clothes dusty, her hair tied back hastily. Her heart was pounding, not from running, but from something heavier.
Anger.
Fear.
Desperation.
Anran.
Her name was still her name.
That much, at least, had not been taken from her.
Her knees weakened, and she sank slowly onto the stool, palms pressed against her temples as the truth unfolded in fragments she couldn't escape.
Two days ago.
She hadn't been sick.
She hadn't collapsed.
She had fallen.
Pushed.
The memory sharpened suddenly, becoming cruelly clear.
—
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her voice—thin, trembling—cut through the quiet field.
The man straightened slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers before turning to face her. He looked older in memory than she felt now. Tired. Uneasy.
"Anran, you shouldn't be here," he said quietly. "Go back."
She shook her head. "I heard you're leaving. Is it true?"
He didn't answer immediately.
That silence was answer enough.
Her chest tightened. "You promised," she said. "You said we'd marry after you go to Haicheng."
He looked away.
"It was different then."
Different.
The word burned.
She took a step closer. "Different because she came back?"
At the sound of footsteps behind her, something in the air shifted.
A woman's laugh—light, mocking.
"Oh? So this is her?"
Shen Anran turned.
The city girl stood a few steps away, her clothes clean and bright against the dull brown of the fields. Her shoes didn't carry mud. Her hair was styled neatly, untouched by wind or sweat.
She looked out of place.
And she knew it.
The woman's eyes swept over Anran slowly, critically, like she was inspecting something cheap.
"This?" she scoffed. "This is who you want to stay behind for?"
Anran's hands clenched into fists. "Who are you to talk like that?"
The woman smiled faintly. "I'm his girlfriend."
The words landed like a slap.
"You?" Anran laughed shakily. "You left years ago."
"I came back," the woman replied calmly. "And I'm taking him with me."
Anran turned desperately to the man. "Tell her she's lying."
He didn't meet her eyes.
"Anran… let it go."
Her heart shattered quietly.
—
The memory lurched forward.
They were closer now. Too close.
The city girl stepped around her, circling slowly, her gaze sharp and unkind.
"Have you ever really looked at yourself?" she asked suddenly.
Anran stiffened. "What?"
"Look," the woman said, pulling a small mirror from her bag and shoving it into Anran's hands. "Really look."
Anran stared down at the reflection.
Her face was sun-darkened. Her skin rougher than it once was. Her hair plain. Her eyes tired.
The city girl leaned in, voice low and venomous.
"Ugly," she said softly. "So ugly."
Anran's hands shook.
"You smell like dirt," the woman continued. "You dress like a peasant. What made you think you could compete with me?"
"Stop it," Anran whispered.
The woman laughed. "You should be grateful. If not for him, you'd rot here forever."
Anran looked up at the man, pleading. "Say something."
He said nothing.
—
The memory fractured again.
Shouting.
Voices raised.
Anran felt herself stepping backward, heart racing, refusing to yield.
"I won't leave," she said hoarsely. "I won't."
The city girl's expression hardened.
"You really don't know when to give up."
There was a sudden shove.
Anran stumbled.
Her heel caught on loose earth.
For one suspended moment, everything went silent.
The sky spun.
The ground rushed up.
She remembered the sensation clearly now—the shock, the terror, the brief, weightless feeling before pain exploded through her body.
Then nothing.
—
Shen Anran gasped and doubled over, bile rising in her throat.
Her hands trembled violently.
She had died.
Not from illness.
Not from weakness.
But because she had loved the wrong person in the wrong life.
Tears slipped down her face before she even realized she was crying.
It hurt.
Not physically—but deeper, heavier.
This wasn't her past, yet the emotions clung to her like they belonged there.
Loneliness.
Humiliation.
Betrayal.
She pressed a hand against her chest, breathing unevenly.
So that was it.
That was how this body had ended.
Two days ago.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"Idiot," she whispered—not sure who she meant.
She wiped her face slowly, forcing herself to breathe.
The memories settled, sinking into her like sediment after a storm. They didn't disappear. They simply… stayed.
Shen Anran straightened.
Her eyes were dry now.
Whoever this girl had been—weak, desperate, willing to die for love—she was gone.
In her place stood someone who had already died once.
Someone who knew how fragile life was.
Someone who would never beg again.
She looked toward the door, sunlight spilling in.
Survive, she thought.
This time, I survive.
The room swam back into focus slowly.
Shen Anran's hands were still trembling when she felt movement in front of her. A shadow fell across the floor, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
"Anran?"
The voice cracked.
She lifted her head.
The woman standing there looked pale, her eyes wide with fear, hands clenched tightly at her sides as if she didn't know what to do with them. Her clothes were old but clean, sleeves rolled up hastily, hair pulled back in a loose knot that had begun to come undone.
Her face was lined—not with age alone, but with worry.
A name surfaced gently in Shen Anran's mind, not forced this time, but aching and familiar.
Liu Meilan (刘美兰).
Her mother.
The realization hit harder than the memories.
Her body shook violently again, breath hitching as emotion surged up without warning. Liu Meilan rushed forward instinctively, her face draining of color.
"Anran!" she cried. "What's wrong? Does it hurt? Is your head hurting again? I'll call for help—"
She turned sharply toward the door.
Before she could shout, Shen Anran moved.
It was slow, deliberate.
She reached out and caught her mother's sleeve.
The touch startled them both.
Liu Meilan froze, looking down at the hand gripping her clothing like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
"Don't," Shen Anran said softly.
Her voice was steady—too steady.
She forced herself to lift the corners of her mouth.
It wasn't a real smile. It didn't reach her eyes. But it was enough.
"I'm fine," she said.
Liu Meilan stared at her, disbelief written plainly across her face. "How can you say that? You scared me to death just now. You were shaking like—like—"
Her voice broke.
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as she reached out, cupping Shen Anran's face with trembling hands.
"Do you know what you put me through?" she whispered. "You've been unconscious for two days. Two days, Anran. I thought I'd lost you."
Two days.
So the memories were right.
Shen Anran swallowed.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Liu Meilan let out a sob and pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as if she might disappear again if she loosened her grip.
"Don't ever do this to me again," her mother said shakily. "I don't care about anything else. Just live. Just stay alive."
Shen Anran stiffened briefly—then slowly relaxed into the hug.
She hadn't been held like this in a long time.
Not in 2020.
Not in the sterile loneliness of hospital rooms and distant voices through phones.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I will," she said. "I promise."
Liu Meilan pulled back slightly, studying her face anxiously. "Are you dizzy? Do you feel pain anywhere?"
"No," Shen Anran replied truthfully. "I feel… tired."
That was safe. That was believable.
Liu Meilan nodded quickly. "Then lie down. Lie down and rest."
She guided Shen Anran back gently, helping her onto the narrow bed. The mattress was thin, the smell of damp earth still lingering—but Liu Meilan smoothed the blanket over her with a tenderness that made Shen Anran's throat ache.
As she lay back, her body finally stopped trembling.
The storm inside her quieted, settling into something heavier, more controlled.
Liu Meilan sat on the edge of the bed, reluctant to let go of her hand.
"Everything will be alright," she murmured, more to herself than to Shen Anran. "Once you're better, we'll forget all that nonsense. That man, that woman… none of it matters."
Shen Anran stared up at the wooden ceiling.
The images flickered faintly at the edges of her mind—the field, the mirror, the shove—but they no longer overwhelmed her.
She was here.
She was alive.
She turned her head slightly and looked at her mother.
"Mother," she said.
Liu Meilan looked down immediately. "Yes?"
"I'm hungry."
The woman blinked—then laughed weakly through her tears. "Good. That's good. I'll make you something warm."
She stood quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve, relief evident in every hurried movement.
"I'll be right back," she said. "Don't move."
As the door closed softly behind her, Shen Anran exhaled.
The room fell quiet again.
She stared at her hands resting atop the blanket—these hands, this life, this borrowed past.
So.
This was where she stood.
A body that had died for love.
A mother who had almost lost her daughter.
A future she hadn't planned for—but now owned.
Her lips curved faintly, not in sadness this time, but resolve.
No more begging.
No more falling.
This life would be lived differently.