Old Dreams of 1937

When I woke up, my best friend and I had transmigrated into performers at a theater in the old days.

My best friend had sky-high ambitions. She soon caught the eye of the Thirteenth Young Master of the warlord’s residence, bought her freedom, and became a glamorous concubine.

I stayed at the theater, quietly and steadily learning opera.

My best friend made a grand show of buying my freedom. “A performer’s life in Shanghai is so short. You’d be better off marrying an officer now and having a passionate romance in the Republic era. Otherwise, what was the point of coming here?”

I refused outright. When we studied history, my best friend had cared only about the romance and romantic escapades in Republic-era novels.

She had forgotten the smoke of war, the women left dead in its wake, and the terrible suffering of the Chinese people.

After that, I continued helping Yan’an gather intelligence from the theater and sent homemade penicillin to the front lines.

When Jiangcheng fell, the Thirteenth Young Master handed my best friend over to the Japanese.

After enduring horrific abuse, she escaped, barely alive. “I’ve learned my lesson. I want to go home.”

But as I looked at my devastated country, my resolve only grew stronger:

“Five thousand years of history may lie behind us, but across these 9.6 million square kilometers, there is hope.”