Zhuhua

Li Jingxun died once. In the summer when she was nine years old, a sudden illness took her away, leaving her grandmother Yang Lihua with only a small sarcophagus. She remembered her grandmother holding her hand that was getting colder, and she remembered the coldness when the darkness came up. Then she woke up. When I opened my eyes, it was the same palace, the same bed, and the same summer. Grandma Yang Lihua was sitting on the edge of the bed, her white hair on her temples turned silver by the candlelight, her hot fingertips still held in her hand. She's back. Go back to that night less than half a month before his death. The poison in the medicine, the flowers in the back mountain, the old things buried under the Buddhist hall, Yang Guang's careless glance - there are too many secrets hidden in this palace. And she is the only one who knows the ending. In her previous life, she only lived to be nine years old and had no time to do anything. This life starts from the age of nine. … "Grandma," she pressed her hot forehead into that palm, "I will grow up well this time."