When Cheng Jin opened her eyes, the first thing she smelled was a mixture of camphorwood trunks and coal briquettes.
The scent was so familiar it made her nose sting. She sat bolt upright, and the old spring bed creaked. On the mottled limewashed wall, a 1992 calendar seemed to smile at her: a girl in a red sweater holding a white Persian cat, with the printed word "March" clearly visible in the lower-right corner.
"Xiao Jin, you're awake?" Her mother, Lin Xiulan, called from outside the door, her voice rough with sleep. "Get up and have breakfast. Your dad bought tofu pudding this morning."
Cheng Jin clutched the bedsheet so tightly her fingernails dug into her palm. It hurt. This wasn't a dream.
She had really returned.
Returned to the spring of 1992, when she was twelve. Returned to the beginning, when her parents were still alive, her younger brother was still little, and none of the misfortunes had begun.
