A few minutes later, Song Erya stood rigidly at attention with her hands pressed to her pant legs. A coil of rope had been wound around her several times, binding her to the lychee tree so she could no longer run around.
She was dumbfounded.
Now she understood why Song Yao had been afraid of Shen Mingsong. This man was completely unhinged—who tied up a child like this?
She wanted to shout, but Shen Mingsong looked every bit like he would gag her if she dared make a sound.
Her big eyes widened. Shock and anger quickly turned into pleading. "Brother, I was wrong. Can you untie me?"
The boy was cold and merciless. "Stay right there."
Song Erya clenched her teeth and realized one of them was loose—a baby tooth. He hadn't tied her very tightly; it was just that her body was too weak to break free.
She stopped speaking. Inside, she was exploding, but she could only stand there at attention as punishment.
The sun gradually climbed higher. Someone inside the house woke up. After a bout of coughing, a window was pushed open, revealing a gentle, beautiful face.
Mingzhu was startled by the sight in the courtyard and scolded sharply, "Shen Mingsong, why did you tie the child up?!"
Only then did Shen Mingsong come over to untie her.
The moment Song Erya was free, she immediately lunged forward with a headbutt—but he dodged swiftly.
She fell flat to the ground and knocked herself out.
Pain. So much pain.
When she opened her eyes again and saw her surroundings clearly, she froze.
A dim, gray morning. A private hospital room, silent and still.
It was 2025.
The lingering smell of disinfectant filled her nose. Song Erya's breathing wasn't smooth, and her body felt unbearably heavy. She couldn't even sit up.
She had just undergone a bone marrow puncture and was lying on her side in a laminar-flow bed. A transparent curtain hung outside to prevent fungal particles from entering. By the bedside, a warm-toned wall lamp cast a small pool of light that wasn't harsh.
The room was so quiet she could hear the faint hum of machines. On a sofa not far away sat a figure—blurred, but with a sharp silhouette.
Sensing that she was awake, the figure approached and asked tiredly through the curtain, "Still uncomfortable, Er'er?"
Uncertain, Song Erya rubbed her eyes. What she saw was still Shen Mingsong's face—clearly defined, belonging to an adult man.
She had traveled thirty years back, and then traveled back again?
Because her gaze was too panicked, Shen Mingsong reached up and pressed the call button on the wall. He crouched down in a posture almost like kneeling, his face grave as he examined her condition. "What's wrong, Er'er? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Uncle?"
Stubble tinged with blue-gray shadowed Shen Mingsong's jaw, deep lines creased between his brows, and his facial features were set tight. "Uncle's here."
Song Erya was caught in chaos. She struggled to sit up, but Shen Mingsong pressed her shoulder, stopping her from moving.
The doctor soon pushed the door open and examined her carefully.
"The fever's gone. Her condition is stable. Try to avoid too much contact with other patients."
After giving a few more instructions, the doctor waited until the last bit of medication finished dripping, removed the needle, and left.
By then, Song Erya had calmed down. She lay there, dazed, her gaze unfocused.
Shen Mingsong drew the bed curtain closed. Her hand slipped out and caught his arm. "Uncle, I had a very strange dream."
Her slender fingers barely had the strength to grip his clothes. Shen Mingsong put her hand back on the bed and asked through the curtain, "What kind of dream?"
Song Erya hesitated again and again. Part of her felt she shouldn't recklessly say everything; another part felt that with Shen Mingsong, it didn't matter. He would believe her—even if she said cows were flying in the sky, he would probably look up.
She organized her words slightly and said haltingly, "I dreamed that I became someone named Song Yao. My mom was my sister. It was so strange."
After some hesitation, she asked, "Uncle Mingsong, do you know Song Yao?"
Shen Mingsong stared at her in silence for nearly a full minute.
In that minute, his expression shifted repeatedly—shock flashing by, his breathing seeming to pause—before slowly easing. His hoarse voice carried a faint tremor. "Song Yao?"
Song Erya nodded hard. "Yes. That's the name."
He lowered his eyes. Beneath thick black lashes, his pupils were even darker. All emotion blurred together like ink soaking into ruined paper. He said lightly, "She was your mother's younger sister."
But Song Erya had never heard her mother mention such a person.
Shen Mingsong seemed to know what she was thinking. "She died very young."
"How did Song Yao die?" Song Erya asked.
"July 17, 1995. Fourteen years old. She fell into the sea and drowned."
Song Erya bit her lower lip. So it was all real. She hadn't been dreaming—she had truly traveled back.
But why had she come back so quickly?
"And what else?" Shen Mingsong leaned closer, his face nearer. "What else did Er'er dream about?"
Even through the transparent curtain, Song Erya could see the fatigue in his eyes from days without proper sleep.
In the dim light, there was something wrong with his gaze—like thick fog rising at dusk, slowly closing in on her.
She couldn't say exactly what felt off. She blinked lightly. "I also dreamed of Mom. She became very young. And Uncle when you were little—you were so fierce back then."
Shen Mingsong paused, then smiled. "How fierce?"
Song Erya rarely saw him smile like that. She told him about the misdeeds he'd committed in her dream.
Anyone else would have dismissed it as nonsense, but after listening, Shen Mingsong looked at her deeply. "That's my fault. Uncle apologizes to you."
Song Erya thought of that teenage boy. "Uncle, what were you like when you were young?"
Shen Mingsong replied, "I had a bad temper."
In truth, his temper wasn't much better now—he had simply learned restraint with age.
Having lived with him for so many years, Song Erya had known only his gentleness and indulgence. In front of him, she couldn't help acting spoiled. "Uncle is the best person."
Shen Mingsong smiled faintly. "What else can Er'er dream about?"
"Nothing else." Song Erya remembered that failed headbutt, her head throbbing phantom pain, and once again doubted whether that boy had really been Shen Mingsong.
After chatting with her for a while, Shen Mingsong seemed less tired than before. He said it was still early and told her to sleep a bit more.
Song Erya was very sleepy. She also told him to go rest and not keep watch over her—she wasn't feeling too bad anymore.
In truth, she still hurt. She wanted him to comfort her, to hold her, but then she remembered she was an adult now and couldn't always act like a child.
She glanced at him. "Uncle, will you come see me again tomorrow?"
"I'll try to come every day," Shen Mingsong said.
Only then did Song Erya close her eyes.
She soon fell fast asleep. Shen Mingsong stared at her head. The hair she had finally grown back had been shaved off again for treatment. Her head was round, and beneath her pale skin, fine bluish blood vessels were visible.
She slept very quietly, motionless, making one want to check her breathing.
Shen Mingsong stood by the bed for a while. In the night, his expression was hard to make out.
Summer dawned quickly. Before long, Song Erya woke again.
The hospital room was empty.
She struggled out of bed. After just one step, she tugged at the wound—sharp pain stabbed her lower back, making it hard to walk.
She made it to the bathroom. Even that short distance left her face deathly pale from pain. Looking at her bald head in the mirror, she let out a heavy sigh.
She had barely finished washing up when Aunt Wang pushed the door open. Seeing her, she exclaimed, "Er'er, why did you get out of bed? What if you pull your wound?"
Not seeing Shen Mingsong, Song Erya's mouth drooped. "Where's Uncle?"
"How would I know the gentleman's schedule?" Aunt Wang helped her to the sitting area, opened the small pressure cooker on the table, and laid out breakfast one by one, coaxing her. "Er'er, eat breakfast first, okay?"
It was completely the tone used to soothe a child. In the Shen household, she had always been treated like one. Even today's pastries were specially made in the shape of little pigs.
Aunt Wang was one of the household caregivers and had been taking care of her since she moved into the Shen home.
With no appetite, Song Erya didn't want to eat. She held her phone and played around, only then noticing a message from her close friend Duan Xirui.
Not long after the college entrance exam, he asked whether she planned to attend Tsinghua or Peking University.
Song Erya replied: "Hang myself."
After a while, Duan Xirui sent back a question mark. "What's wrong? Didn't do well?"
Song Erya sighed silently.
People are born to be toyed with and tormented by fate.
At sixteen, she had been diagnosed with leukemia and had no choice but to suspend school and be hospitalized. After more than two years battling the illness, she finally won and returned to a normal life.
She picked up her textbooks again and studied relentlessly. At twenty-one, she finally took this year's college entrance exam. Just as she was full of hope for life after university, she developed a low-grade fever.
At first, she didn't think much of it, assuming some cold medicine would do. But the family doctor seriously insisted she go to the hospital for tests.
He also notified Shen Mingsong, who was abroad. Shen Mingsong flew back overnight only to receive the bad news—her illness had relapsed.
Song Erya was once again confined to the hospital, no different from prison.
Aunt Wang continued urging her to eat breakfast.
Song Erya asked, "Is Grandma doing okay?"
The "Grandma" she referred to was Shen Mingsong's mother, Mingzhu.
"She's fine. After breakfast every day, she can still go out for a little stroll," Aunt Wang said, showing her a video on her phone.
In it, a white-haired elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, her legs gone below the knee. With Alzheimer's disease, she answered east when asked west as the caregiver spoke to her.
Song Erya thought of the gentle beauty she had glimpsed before traveling back and felt a tight ache in her chest.
So Grandma Ming had once been that beautiful when she was young.
After breakfast, she returned to bed. There was nowhere else she could go—not even out of the hospital room. After playing games for a while, she grew bored.
She checked her exam score again—706 points. She didn't know if she would still have the chance to attend university.
She closed her eyes in pain, vaguely hearing voices.
"Why isn't she awake yet? Did she hit her head? Or is she asleep again?"
Thinking it was Aunt Wang, Song Erya sat up. "I'm not asleep."
But standing before her were a young Mingzhu and Shen Mingsong, and she herself was sitting in a reclining chair inside a house.
The noon sun blazed, the air outside the courtyard shimmering with heat.
Song Erya: "???"
Again?
***
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