In her past life, fifteen-year-old Long Ting took eight-year-old Ji Ci away from their run-down mountain village, where every girl was named Zhaodi or Laidi, hoping for a boy.
To keep the people from their hometown from catching them, she and the child she had in tow spent thirteen years moving from place to place.
When Ji Ci returned after finishing his studies, he opened the door full of joy, only to find Long Ting's black-and-white portrait in the middle of the main room and a square urn beside it.
The house was packed with people, all fighting over Long Ting's estate.
Ji Ci took the urn, locked the front door, and burned them all alive.
He returned to the little home they had shared and dug out a locked box. Through his tears, he poured out the love he had buried in his heart.
The only person in the world who loved him was gone. There was no point in living like a walking corpse, so he opened the gas valve, lay on the bed with the urn in his arms, and drifted into a deep sleep.
Long Ting floated in the air, crying out: You fool, why didn't you tell me sooner?
When she awoke again, Long Ting had returned to the day of her twenty-fifth birthday.
Ji Ci's cheerful voice came from the kitchen:
"Tingting, the cake's here. Can you get it? My hands are full."
Blinded by tears, Long Ting hugged her little boy from behind.
Ji Ci, let's both live well in this life!
