In my previous life: When I was young, I worked day and night to make money. After I did something I was ashamed of and earned my first fortune, I started keeping a healthy routine.
But I abused my kidneys without restraint. By the age of forty-five, I was already white-haired, and life had lost all its flavor. Still, I was blessed with a child in my later years. (I had a son at forty-seven. At around that age, you can still perform. A suspicious man would get a DNA test, at least at three different labs.)
I hoped I could live for a few more decades. (Anyone who's worn out their body knows what it feels like to be exhausted and unable to concentrate.) But when my child was thirteen, I still ended up on a ventilator. I knew there was no cure, but what could I do about my unwillingness to let go? At least I'd earned enough to provide for my child for the rest of his life. (My child hadn't grown up yet, and I was already failing. Everyone knows the worst thing is for a child to get involved with gambling or drugs.)
When you love someone deeply, you plan far ahead for them. In my final month, I swallowed my pride and entrusted a fund to manage my estate. At the very end, I sank into unconsciousness, still full of regret. (Who wouldn't want to see their child's coming-of-age ceremony and wedding, or watch their grandchild make the traditional first-grab choice?)
In this life: Chen Yuan woke with a splitting headache. Last night's dream had felt like reality: an old, frail father filled with boundless reluctance to part from his young son. (Any father knows that until a child comes of age, they're still just a kid.) The memories of that dream gradually grew clearer and more complete. Chen Yuan asked himself: Was that my previous life?
My own book, I come first.