You taught history all your life.
You know the rise and fall of dynasties and the fates of their people better than anyone. You thought you were merely an observer, recounting other people's stories from a distance of a thousand years.
Until one day, you noticed the words in your textbook moving.
Until you saw the blue mark on your wife's wrist, one you had never noticed before.
Until you remembered that the two of you had forgotten something.
Some things are older than history books. The purpose of some people is hidden in the cracks of time.
At forty, you are no longer a narrator of history. You have become someone who steps into it.
No golden finger, no System, no chance to start over. All you can rely on is the historical knowledge you have accumulated over a lifetime, and the woman beside you, whom you have called "wife" for more than a decade.
What is the truth of history?
Perhaps someone has always been carrying its burden.
