When the sound of gongs and drums rolled over from the end of the street, Duan Yu was lying in front of the case, and his fingertips just touched the inkstone that was not yet dry. The fragrance of ink mixed with the dust drifting in from the window made his throat tighten and his eyes became hot first.
Not a dream.
The touch of the fingertips pressing the inkstone is real, and the delicate ink particles under the fingertips have a slightly cool moistness; the shouts of the gong knockers outside the window are real, with the unique smoothness and excitement of the market in their voices, and they shout louder than ever, "Congratulations to Mr. Duan for his high school performance." Just——"; Even the halo of the broken lamp at the corner of the desk was real. In the dim light, he could clearly see his hands, which were several years younger. The joints were clear, and there were no hideous scars left in prison, nor the horrific scars of being burned by a soldering iron before death.
He's really back. Back to the day three years ago when he first became a scholar.
