Those Years I Was Reborn Alongside My Grandmother

When I was twenty-four, I saved my grandmother from jumping off a rooftop.

She said she had cancer and didn't want to burden me. I told her I would spend every last penny to get her treated.

But three months later, Grandma was gone. A year after that, depressed and desperate, I stood on the very same rooftop.

The moment I jumped, my sixty-year-old grandmother appeared before me:

"Zhiyi! What are you doing!"

I returned to sixteen years earlier. Grandma was still alive, and the cancer hadn't come yet.

This time, I took her for a checkup. They caught the cancer early, and her surgery was a success.

But what came to light next was a secret buried for forty years: Grandpa was an aerospace engineer on the "Zhenhua" project, and he died in the line of duty in 1980. What he left behind was not only Grandma's forty years of waiting, but also a box of top-secret blueprints, a hidden list of names, and a promise buried deep in the Gobi Desert.

When the people who had lived under assumed names were found one by one, and Grandma said by the sea, "Jianguo, I saw the sea for you," I finally understood:

Some people live so that others can live better.

In this life, I spent forty years waiting with Grandma for someone. In the next, let them wait for me.