Su Xian has been a cultural relic restorer for three hundred years.
Three hundred years have passed, dynasties have changed, and everything has changed. She lives in a secluded courtyard, guarding the green tiles and white walls, growing vegetables and raising cats. Her fingertips rub the cracks in the thousand-year-old artifacts, smoothing out the mottled spots left by the years. Her life is light and stable, as if she is completely isolated from all the troubles in the world.
She thought this silence would last forever, until an anonymous text message unexpectedly shattered all her peace.
The content of the text message was only a few words, but like an awl hardened by ice, it pierced into the bottom of her heart that had been dusted for three hundred years:
"You didn't die in the fire in 1743."
In an instant, the flames and smoke from three hundred years ago seemed to sweep in again, and the secrets she had deliberately buried were suddenly revealed.
On the third underground floor of the museum, there is a door that must not be opened; in the letters left by her old friend Gu Yanzhi, every word contains clues of the key; and in the dark, something is following the traces to find her.
That thing was never a living person.
Su Xian lowered her eyes and looked at the brand new wound on her arm. This was the first wound she had suffered in three hundred years of living. The wound ached slightly, constantly reminding her that escaping would eventually come to an end.
Her fingertips gently brushed the edge of the wound, her tone was calm and calm, but it contained the coldness and determination that had accumulated over the years, and she said softly:
"Then come on."
Philosophy: After living for three hundred years, she learned not to be sad for too long. But some doors must be closed; some truths must be faced. Immortality is not a gift, it is a responsibility.