Chapter Three: Past Lives and Present Destiny

The carriage rumbled along, voices whispered softly; they were already on the road to Mount Qixia. Leaning against Cui Liu, Liu Qin's gaze grew hazy without her noticing, and she slowly drifted into sleep.

It felt as though she had returned to that highly developed twenty-first century. Her brief life truly embodied the phrase “in the blink of an eye,” flashing through her mind like a spinning lantern. She saw her own birth, elementary, middle, high school, university, work—each stage orderly, step by step, never overstepping boundaries, doing what was expected at the expected time, like a computer following its programmed code.

When she reached the age to fall in love and start a family, she found a boyfriend whose circumstances matched hers. Their relationship was another program in that computer: a few faint sparks of affection, exchanging backgrounds in conversation, agreeing it was feasible, then starting to date, dining out, watching movies, occasionally exchanging small gifts, then holding hands, kissing, sleeping together.

At twenty-eight, they decided to marry—not out of great love, but because it was the expected next step. Their friends and colleagues had all married; their parents and relatives believed it was time. But then, her “computer” finally broke down. When she held the hospital’s diagnosis and heard the doctor clearly say “lymphoma,” she did not cry out of fear or collapse in terror as she had once imagined. Instead, her mind went utterly blank—she “crashed,” she remembered wryly thinking.

Even without medical knowledge, she knew the horror of lymphoma—it was almost synonymous with death. She refused the doctors’ and her family’s pleas for treatment. Since there was no hope, why cling to a few extra days of suffering in a hospital reeking of antiseptic, struggling on the edge of death? It was simply a difference between dying a few days sooner in pain or living two more years only to die painfully in the end.

Some say that life is but a road from birth to death, and from death to birth again. From the moment of birth, one begins the slow march toward death, and at the instant of death, a new life begins. On and on, in endless cycles, like the flowers and trees, like the rising and setting of the sun—this is the immutable law of heaven and earth.

She earnestly persuaded her not-unfeeling boyfriend to break up with her, and to ease his conscience, she took all the money they had saved for a down payment on a house and for the wedding banquet. She quit her job, returned to her hometown, secretly left part of the money behind in her parents’ tearful care, and with the rest, she began to travel, with no fixed itinerary, stopping wherever she pleased, leaving when she wanted.

By train and by bus, she went to many places, climbed mountains, played in water, saw grasslands and seas. Her body grew weaker and paler. When she could no longer walk, she carried her simple luggage to her final stop—a hospital—where the remaining money paid for a bed and the simplest treatments. There, she waited quietly, alone, for death to come.

Looking back on her short life, she realized she had neither loved nor hated passionately; her days were bland, yet not without gentle warmth. Her life was simple, clear, detached—a faint sketch on a canvas, destined to be erased by the winds of time.

When she passed, though her body was ravaged, her expression remained peaceful and calm. Her ashes, together with her only belonging—a mobile phone—were sent back home. On that phone were images of her, her final beautiful smile left to the world.

She knew her parents would grieve, but she was neither their only nor their most cherished child. Time would dull their pain; soon, her parents would slowly forget the ache of losing her. Relatives and friends would gradually cease to remember her, as if she had never been there at all...

When she opened her eyes again to this new world, she had become a daughter of the Liu family.

Talk of time travel was utter nonsense. If she had to believe in time flowing backward, she would rather think that as she crossed that mythical bridge of forgetfulness, Lady Meng’s drowsiness allowed her to begin a new cycle with memories of her past.

Buddha spoke of three thousand great worlds. A thousand minor worlds make a middle world; a thousand middle worlds make a great world.

Perhaps her former life belonged to one minor world, and her present to another. There are always threads connecting world to world, as there are ties binding people together. This world resembled her former Earth in many ways, only lagging by a millennium.

Born anew with memories of her past, if this was the heavens’ compassion and gift, she would cherish it all the more, in gratitude. This was an extension of her life—a life lived as two lives in one.

If her past life was a pale sketch, then in this one, she would paint with bold, vibrant colors. If before, she wrote her life as a careful, upright script, now she would let her brush fly, writing a wild, unrestrained cursive, intoxicated by her own freedom.

“Ding…”

The carriage stopped, the wind stilled, the trees grew quiet. The previous life faded, and the new began.

“The young miss is sleeping so soundly today, she hasn’t woken up yet,” Cui Yu said, peering at the little one nestled in Cui Liu’s arms. Her skin was delicate as if it would break at a touch, lips rosy, and long lashes like feathered fans resting on her cheeks. So calm and sweet, it was impossible not to feel tender affection.

Cui Liu gently stroked her hair and patted her softly, careful not to disturb her, and whispered, “Miss, wake up, miss.”

The child in her arms stirred, her lashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes, revealing those bright, clear orbs, still clouded with the confusion of waking from a dream.

All traces of the dream faded away—the world-weariness from having witnessed life and death was concealed by the simple act of rubbing her eyes and buried deep within her heart. Her gaze shifted, fleeting, but when she looked up, her eyes were once again pure and innocent as a child’s.

She lowered her small hand, eyes wide and guileless. At that moment, Liu Qin truly felt herself only a child. Smiling sweetly at the two sisters who had cared for her these past five years, her heart brimmed with warmth and affection.

“Cui Liu, have we arrived?” she asked, sitting up from Cui Liu’s embrace and peering through a gap in the carriage curtain.

“Yes, we’re here,” Cui Yu replied, leaping from the carriage. A matron lifted the curtain, and Cui Yu reached in to carry her out and set her on the ground. Cui Liu also got down and together they tidied her hair ornaments and smoothed the wrinkles in her clothes.

The matron had already helped the old madam down from the carriage, who was beckoning to her now.

“Mother!” Liu Qin ran over joyfully, hugging her loving mother. Her eyes grew hot, and she buried her face in her mother’s robes, quietly wiping away a sudden, unfathomable surge of longing and sorrow.