After his wife died, Lin Yuan sent her messages on WeChat every day, telling her everything on his mind.
On the seventh day, the account actually replied: “Who are you?”
He called in a trembling voice. Their daughter answered: “Dad, I’m playing with Mom’s phone.”
But their daughter had been gone for three years.
That night, he frantically rushed to the ruins where his wife and daughter had died. Under the moonlight, the familiar door appeared out of nowhere. Inside was their whole, untouched home, steaming braised pork, his living wife, and their six-year-old daughter.
“You’re finally home,” she said with a smile.
He thought it was a gift from fate, a long-delayed reunion.
Until the third day, when his wife told him, “You have to go. You’re not dead yet.”
That was when he realized this wasn’t a reunion.
It was goodbye.
