Return to the Desolate Village

This might be the most important day of Xu Zixin's life. From the moment he woke that morning, both eyelids kept twitching. The old folks say, "A twitching left eye means fortune; a twitching right eye means disaster," but they never said what it means when both eyes twitch at once.

The winter rain of Jiangnan shrouded this barren field. Dampness, near freezing, hung in the air all around. No matter how thick his sweater was, it couldn't keep out the cold. He felt chilled to the bone, from skin to marrow, as if submerged in a basin of ice water.

Everything before him was shrouded in gray. The scene opened in the cold drizzle, revealing a stage made of the entire field. After transmigrating through a five-thousand-year tunnel of time, all the actors had become broken skeletons, lying silently in ancient tombs sullied by mud and water. The director was an old fellow called History, who watched over everything with infinite lifespan and all-seeing knowledge. Xu Zixin was the sole audience member for this drama.

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.