This was the seventh time I died in my husband's arms.
At twelve o'clock at midnight, my heart will stop beating on time.
And the next morning, I would wake up again, back to the same day.
Initially, I thought it all had to do with my husband.
Because he knew when I would die, knew what medicine to prepare in advance, and even held me and said before I died:
"This time, don't wake up again."
But the strange thing is——
Every time I live again, he gets a little older.
The first time, he just turned pale.
The third time, his ring began to slip from his finger.
...
When he woke up for the seventh time, he had white hair on his temples.
And I finally found a bottle of medicine in the pharmacy deep in the manor.
The handwriting on the label is mine.
That was the day I realized that maybe I had the wrong murderer all along.
It's never just me who is really trapped in this cycle.
And the person who least wants me to remember the truth may have been waiting for me to learn to let go with his own life.
Purpose: True love is not about leaving the dead in the past forever, but learning to accept loss and cherish those who are still by your side.