In March of the second year of Yongning, the first rain fell on Fenglingdu after a severe drought.
Lu Ningshuang died in the rain.
Later she often thought of the rain. Rain poured down from the leaden sky, the Yellow River was turbid, and the dead locust trees on the bank were soaked black. When she fell down, her face was buried in the muddy water, and she heard someone shouting. The voice was far away, as if separated by a layer of water.
She didn't know whether the shout came from the ICU corridor in the 21st century or from the ferry 1,600 years in the future.
When he reopened his eyes, everyone in the Lu family was busy dismantling door panels to make a stretcher. My brother was suffering from high fever, and my sister was crying from hunger. My grandmother sewed the coins she had saved for half a year into her close-fitting tunic. The stitches were so fine that she was afraid of being found.
She looked down at her hands.
A twenty-one-year-old surgeon, sixty-three transplant operations, four SCIs, a medical dispute that should not have happened, a notice that he would never be hired, and a river at three in the morning.
Then came sixteen hundred years, a woman with the same name as her, a county where not a drop of rain had fallen since the beginning of summer.
She looked at the unfamiliar calluses on her hands. Thirty-three days later, the team will set off south. There was no system, no golden finger, no one to tell her where to go.
But she knows one thing -
She failed to save that person in her previous life.
She wanted to try it in this life.
