In a hospital room, a man lay motionless on cold sheets, his body weakened by cancer. The beeping heart monitor, the only sound in the hushed room, reminded him of life's fragility. His shallow breaths were each a struggle.
His mind drifted to his dreams, not the pain or the inevitable end. He envisioned a life with a family, someone to love him unconditionally. An orphan himself, he had always strived to live a good life despite the odds. But he had never known the comfort of a parent's guiding hand. His deepest desire was simply to have someone to call family.
Yet, as cancer slowly claimed him, he knew those dreams would never materialize. He fought valiantly, but it was futile. The world indifferently continued its spin, oblivious to his existence. His body disintegrated, and soon, his heart would cease to beat. But one thing remained inescapable: the profound regret of never experiencing the love he had longed for.
And then, the pain ceased.
The world around him spun, collapsing in on itself, and suddenly, darkness was replaced by light. His senses scrambled to adjust, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. He felt the soft bedding beneath him, the air warm yet strange.
His body felt different—lighter, more agile. There were no machines, no sterile environment. He attempted to sit up, but before he could even process his thoughts, a primal, involuntary scream escaped his lips—a raw, instinctual reaction to the confusion and disorientation he felt.
This scream wasn't a call for assistance or directed at anyone in particular. It was simply the sound of a child's fear, pure and unadulterated. The room seemed eerily quiet, yet the echo of his scream reverberated through the air, loud and unsettling.
He closed his eyes, trying to comprehend his new form. Where was he? Who was he?
The door creaked open, and people entered the room. His senses heightened as they approached, but confusion clouded his mind. A woman stepped forward, her eyes filled with concern. She wore simple yet elegant clothing, her face etched with worry and love. "Yun?" she asked softly, her voice gentle yet uncertain. "Are you alright?"
Behind her, emerged—an adolescent girl, perhaps around 12 years old—looking at him with wide, curious eyes. She was clearly distressed but couldn't quite comprehend the situation.
"Brother Yun, are you okay?" The girl's voice was innocent, light, yet tinged with anxiety.
The man felt the warmth in their gaze, but something about their presence made him uneasy. He didn't recognize them. Their faces were unfamiliar, even though a faint sense of recognition stirred within him. The child's innocence felt like a distant echo, belonging to someone else's past, not his.
He blinked, trying to make sense of the unfolding situation. The memories of this new body, the boy named Zhao Yun, were still jumbled. He could sense the walls Zhao Yun had built between himself and his family—the distance, the coldness. Yet, here they were—his family, or so they claimed.
"I…" The words stuck in his throat. He couldn't find the right response. He didn't know them. They were strangers to him.
"Please, leave," he said softly, his voice hoarse. It wasn't out of malice, but necessity. He needed solitude. He needed time to process this, to understand who he was now.
The woman hesitated, her brows furrowing in concern, but she nodded slowly. "We'll be outside if you need us," she said gently. She glanced at the girl beside her and with a soft touch to the child's shoulder, they left the room, closing the door behind them.
The room fell silent once again.
As the door clicked shut, the man exhaled, the tension in his body easing slightly. Alone at last, his mind began to sift through the haze of memories—Zhao Yun's memories, his life, his family, his pain.
The faces of the people who had come to see him lingered in his mind. He could sense the love they had for the boy, but it felt distant, like it didn't quite belong to him. These weren't his parents, not really. The boy had pushed them away, building up walls around his heart, refusing to be close to anyone. He remembered that much clearly.
But this wasn't Zhao Yun's life anymore. It was his, for better or worse. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. The boy's memories weighed heavily on him—resentment, anger, loneliness—but he didn't have to follow that path. He didn't have to shut himself away.
The room around him felt suffocating, too bright, too clean. A large window let in the soft light of the sun, but it only seemed to make the walls feel even more confining. There was a small wooden desk by the window, papers scattered across it, but none of it made sense to him. The bed, the simple dresser, the faint smell of something cooking outside—none of it was his. And yet, it was his now.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. The boy's memories were still fresh, but they weren't his own. They felt alien, something that belonged to someone else. The boy had been trapped in his own anger, too blind to see the love right in front of him.
But he wasn't that boy. At least, not anymore. There was a second chance here, and he couldn't waste it.