Fifty-three-year-old Zhu Juan died one winter.
When she woke again, she was lying on a kang, seven years old.
A copper coin left by her great-grandmother hung around her neck, and the memories of fifty-three years filled her pocket.
It was 1980. Her father was still selling vegetables at the market, and her mother was still making shoe soles by lamplight. There was still time to change everything.
She would tell her father to stop selling vegetables and start selling grilled sausages. She would get her family to save up for a house and wait for the neighborhood to be demolished. She would stop her younger brother from marrying that drama queen.
Most importantly, in this life, she would stay far away from that gambling addict.
Back to 1980, the year I was seven. Everything starts over.
