Reincarnation

A man walked west for a hundred lives. He didn't remember how many times he had died, but his body remembered: always walking with his right foot first, always putting a hot object on the back of his hand, and looking west from time to time. From the warm stone on the river beach in ancient times, to Han Laoshi who waited for his wife every day at the entrance of the village in the Republic of China; from the residual warmth dissipated on the ruined monuments of the Shang and Zhou dynasties, to the half-bowl of cold soup in the contemporary express delivery station. One hundred eras, one hundred ways of living, one hundred times of silent endurance. The teahouse is the anchor, the copper coins are the scales, and the persimmons are the evidence. When the 100th courier sat in the corner of the teahouse and bit into the persimmon that finally turned sweet, he understood—— Reincarnation is not punishment, it is existence itself. After a hundred lifetimes, the persimmons are finally sweet.