The white coat was stained with blood, and the bronze fragments scattered on the experimental table were glowing.
When Gu Mingyuan calibrated the quantum clock for the last time, the cherry blossoms outside the window suddenly fell against time and shattered into star sand.
This is the thirteenth reincarnation restart.
He remembered the way she died in every life - the red dress pierced by arrows on the tower in the Ming Dynasty, the blue dress derailed with the train on a snowy night in the Republic of China, the shrill scream of the monitor in the Millennium ward.
Three thousand years of time condensed into the beating red light of the monitoring ring on her wrist, and her memory always stopped in the heavy rain in her sophomore year of high school: the umbrella bone handed over by the young man was engraved with lotus flowers, and the remaining body temperature on the umbrella handle was the only true lie he had gained in nine reincarnations.
We always think that time is like a long river rushing forward, but we don't know that love is the sand that flows against the flow.
When Lin Xiaoman encountered the desolation behind the transfer student's glasses in the library, when the red rope between Lu Xiao's wrists oozed bronze rust under the moonlight, and when the Luoyang shovel of the archaeological team dug out the oil-paper umbrella with "Gu Changming" and "Lin" painted on it - the gears of fate had long been rusted into a curse, and the roar of the quantum collider was just a belated prelude to the reunion.
This book hides the thousand-year game between two obsessives:
One writes love poems with star sand and forges the heart into an anchor that travels through time and space;
A man who refines his soul into bronze and plants a love-eating poison in the cracks of reincarnation.
When the sketchbook under the classroom desk meets the oracle bones on the altar of the Western Zhou Dynasty, when the blue snowflake vines wrap around the quantum rose on the edge of the black hole - you will understand that some encounters are not accidental, but in countless broken time and space, I always choose to run towards you.
Now,
