When I opened my eyes, I was gasping.
The scent of citrus shampoo hit me first—my shampoo, from two years ago. Then the faded lilac sheets, the tiny cracked mirror, the morning light pouring through half-closed blinds.
This wasn't the hospital. This was my old apartment.
I stumbled out of bed and tripped over a stack of glossy business books—"Lean Startup", "Zero to One", and that cursed "Think and Grow Rich" Yifeng swore by.
I grabbed my phone.
The date: March 7, 2021.
No. Way.
I looked at myself in the mirror, touched my cheek. Young. No dark circles. No calloused hands from sleepless nights signing delivery receipts and arguing with creditors.
I was back. Two years before my death. A second chance.
And this time, I wasn't playing nice.