Li Yichen's consciousness returned in fragments.
Sound came first—murmured voices, the scrape of a stool against the earthen floor, the faint creak of an old wooden door. Then smell: boiled herbs, smoke from a distant stove, damp soil warmed by the sun.
When he finally opened his eyes, light filtered in gently through a small window.
A woman sat beside the bed.
She looked tired. Not the fleeting tiredness of a bad night's sleep, but the kind that had settled into her bones over years. Her hair was pulled back hastily, a few strands already streaked with gray despite her age. Her hands were rough, palms calloused from farm work, fingers clutching a cloth she twisted over and over again.
When she noticed his movement, the cloth slipped from her grasp.
"Yichen?" she said cautiously, as if afraid she was imagining it.
The sound of that name sent a sharp jolt through him.
Memories surged—not violently, but insistently. A courtyard. Children's laughter. A woman kneeling to tie his shoes when he was small. A funeral he was too young to fully understand. His mother's face—blurred, remembered only through warmth and absence.
This woman.
His aunt.
Wang Shulan
She had taken him in the day his mother died in childbirth. No hesitation. No ceremony. She already had children of her own, yet she'd simply added one more bowl to the table.
"Aunt…" he croaked.
Her eyes filled instantly.
"Oh, thank heavens," Wang Shulan whispered, leaning forward. She pressed a hand to his forehead, then his cheek, as if confirming he was real. "You scared me half to death."
Li Yichen tried to sit up, but dizziness washed over him. His aunt quickly pushed him back down.
"Don't move yet," she scolded gently. "You swallowed a lot of water."
Water.
The image flashed clearly now—sunlight glinting off the river, laughter echoing, his younger cousins splashing recklessly. He'd followed them in, confident he could handle it.
He hadn't.
"What… what happened?" he asked.
Wang Shulan let out a long breath. "You tell me you don't remember, and I'll really start panicking."
He shook his head slowly. "I remember the river. I couldn't… breathe."
Her face tightened. "You scared all of us. Little Liangliang ran all the way back screaming that you'd sunk. If it weren't for him—"
"Liangliang?" Yichen interrupted. "Where is he? Where's everyone?"
"At school," she replied quickly. "All of them. Chen Mingyu went anyway even though I told him to stay. That boy never listens."
Mingyu—her eldest son. Seventeen. Serious. Too serious for his age.
"And the girls?" Yichen asked.
"Mei Xiu and Mei Lan are with their grandmother today. Don't worry."
Relief settled into his chest.
They were safe.
"How long… was I out?" he asked.
"Almost a full day," Wang Shulan said. "We thought we'd have to take you to the town clinic, but—"
She hesitated.
"But?" Yichen prompted.
"But a young nurse happened to be visiting," she continued. "She came from the city to see her parents. If not for her, I don't know…"
A different face surfaced in his memory now—calm eyes, steady hands pressing rhythmically against his chest, a firm voice cutting through panic.
"What's her name?" he asked.
"Zhou Wenqing," his aunt said. "Such a good child. She didn't even want payment."
Yichen closed his eyes briefly.
He had died once before.
In another life.
Alone.
This time, he had been pulled back by strangers, by family, by coincidence.
When he opened his eyes again, his aunt was watching him carefully.
"Yichen," she said quietly, "does your head hurt?"
"No," he replied. "It's clear."
Clear enough to understand what had happened.
Clear enough to realize he had been given another chance.
"I thought I lost you," Wang Shulan said, her voice trembling. "Your mother entrusted you to me. If something had happened—"
Yichen reached out, covering her hand with his.
"I'm here," he said. "I won't disappear."
Her lips pressed together tightly as she nodded, blinking back tears.
"You're already twenty," she said after a moment, trying to regain composure. "Still acting like a reckless boy."
He gave a faint smile. "I guess I forgot myself."
She snorted softly. "That's one way to put it."
Silence settled between them—not awkward, but heavy with things unsaid.
Yichen stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his body, the ache in his lungs, the unmistakable pull of reality.
The countryside.
The 1990s.
No machines humming in the background. No glass walls. No sterile isolation rooms.
Just mud, wood, people.
Just life.
"Aunt," he said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"After I recover… I'll help more around the house."
She looked at him in surprise. "You already do."
"I mean it," he said. "I'll take responsibility."
Wang Shulan studied him for a long moment, then smiled—a small, tired smile, but genuine.
"Alright," she said. "First, recover. Then we'll talk."
As she stood to leave, Yichen watched her back, feeling something unfamiliar yet comforting settle in his chest.
In this life, he was not alone.
And somewhere out there—unknown to him yet—another soul had also woken up.
The thought lingered quietly, like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.