Imagine this: after enduring countless hardships and trials, the heroine dies with regrets, only to open her eyes and find herself returned to her youth.
A warm afternoon in the courtyard, a rattan lounge chair, grape leaves trembling in the breeze, and a silk fan resting over her face. A bird embroidered on its surface seems ready to spread its wings and fly, so lifelike it could be real.
She is still the beloved child of the family. Her parents are devoted to each other, and her older brother is gentle and refined. The court, war, slaughter, hatred, perseverance, poisoned wine, pleas for help, desolation, tragedy, and regret all vanish with the dust of the past. The clash of blades, the treacherous schemes, and the bloody storms are shut out by the sunlight.
It is like waking from a dream of utter exhaustion, only to find herself back at the beginning.
Nothing has happened yet. Nothing has been lost.
