I don't know how much time has passed.
Maybe a moment, maybe a long, long time.
Lin Jianguo suddenly felt the surroundings quiet down.
The sound of wind was gone, the crackling of fire ceased, and he couldn't hear anything at all. Only darkness, endless and boundless, thick as ink, deep as the ocean.
He looked down at his hands, but they were invisible. He looked around, but saw nothing.
Where is he?
"Dad?" he called out.
No one responded.
"Mom?" he called again.
Still no answer.
His heart began to panic. He groped around, feeling only air—nothing else.
"Dad! Mom!" he shouted louder, to the point his throat was hoarse, but still no reply.
He ran alone in the darkness, running and running, until his legs were weak and his lungs felt like they were about to explode, but he still couldn't find anything. No light, no sound, no one.
He stopped, crouched on the ground, holding his head, crying.
As he cried, he suddenly saw a faint light ahead.
Very faint, like a distant candle flame, like the dimmest star before dawn. He stood up and ran toward the light. The closer he got, the brighter and warmer it became.
Then he heard a sound.
The crow of a rooster.
That sound was so familiar, so deeply familiar that it made his whole body tremble.
Next came other sounds. The rustling of leaves in the wind. The splash of a water bucket falling into a well from the neighboring courtyard. The distant mooing of cattle, slow and drawn out.
And smells. The scent of earth. The smell of firewood. The aroma of morning dew.
Lin Jianguo opened his eyes.
Above him was a crossbeam. Made of wood, thick, blackened by smoke and fire, with a few strings of dried chili and some garlic braids hanging from it.
Below was a kang bed, covered with an old quilt—blue with white floral patterns, patched in several places.
On the wall, old newspapers pasted up. The date on the newspaper—October 10, 1978.
Lin Jianguo froze there, for a very long time.
He slowly sat up, looked down at his hands. Young, smooth, with a few mosquito bites.
He looked up again, at the crossbeam, at the dried chilies, at the wall covered with newspaper.
Then he lowered his head, covered his face with his hands, shoulders trembling silently as he cried.
He was back.
It was October 10 again.
Sixty-eight days had passed.
But this time, they were consumed by fire before his eyes. His father held him and his mother, shielding them with his own body. He didn't know what happened afterward, whether they survived, or if the fire reached them.
He only remembered his father's heartbeat—thud, thud, thud—beating fast, strong.
He remembered his mother's hands, clutching tightly, so tightly that his fingers hurt.
He remembered being in their arms, feeling warm.
He got off the kang, stepped barefoot onto the ground, and slowly walked to the door, pulling aside the curtain.
In the kitchen, his mother was adding firewood to the stove. She wore that floral cloth shirt—same as yesterday—or rather, the one that was burned with a hole last time. This time, it was intact, clean, as if nothing had happened.
She turned around, saw him, and smiled.
"You're awake? Go wash your face; breakfast is almost ready."
Lin Jianguo stood there, watching her smile. Suddenly, he ran over and hugged her tightly.
His mother was startled, and the firewood in her hand fell.
"What's wrong?" she patted his back. "Had a nightmare?"
Lin Jianguo buried his face in her embrace, nodding hard.
She smiled and held him even tighter.
"It's okay, nightmares are just the opposite," she said. "Mom is here."
In her arms, Lin Jianguo smelled her familiar scent, and tears started to flow again.
He thought, this time, he must protect them.
No matter how many cycles of reincarnation, no matter what price he has to pay.
He must protect them.