Fifty-three-year-old Zhu Juan died one winter.
When she woke up again, she was lying on the kang, seven years old.
Tie around her neck is the copper coin left by her grandma, and her pocket contains fifty-three years of memories.
In 1980, my father was still selling vegetables at the market, and my mother was still collecting shoe soles under the kerosene lamp. It's still not too late.
She wanted her father to stop selling vegetables and start selling sausages. She wants her family to save money to buy a house and wait for the demolition. She wanted her brother not to marry that seductress.
The most important thing is - stay away from that gambler in this life.
Back in 1980, I was seven years old. Everything, start again.
