Lin Yi subconsciously wanted to sit up, but felt weak all over. He barely raised his upper body and looked around. The room was not big, about ten square meters, and the furnishings were pitifully simple: an old wooden table, two stools with crooked legs, a few clay pots stacked in the corner, and a dusty gown hanging on the wall. The ground was made of compacted earth and was pitted and uneven.
He looked down at himself - he was wearing a coarse cloth jacket, the fabric was rough, the color had faded to white, and the cuffs were patched. The skin on his hands was rough, the knuckles were thick, and the palms were thickly calloused. They were not at all the hands he remembered from typing on keyboards for ten years.
Memories came flooding back.
