The first thing Mia Qin felt was the cold.
Not the cold of winter, but the hollow chill of metal, sterile and distant. Her fingertips twitched against the smooth surface beneath her, and a strange pressure settled on her chest—as if her soul was floating just inches above her body, hesitant to return.
She opened her eyes. Blinding white lights greeted her from above. The beeping of a heart monitor broke through the haze, steady and rhythmic like a distant drum.
Where am I?
A sharp pang pierced her temples, followed by a flood of fragmented memories: the hospital, her daughter sobbing, her mother clutching her hand, the sterile scent of antiseptic. Then—darkness.
And now… this.
She sat up with difficulty, the movement foreign, as if her limbs didn't quite belong to her. A mirror on the wall caught her eye. She froze.
The face staring back was not her forty-five-year-old self.
It was younger—much younger. Smooth skin, bright eyes, long black hair cascading down her shoulders. She looked like she had just graduated college.
"No way…" she whispered.
The door burst open. A nurse rushed in, wide-eyed. "Mia? You're awake!"
The name echoed in her ears.
Mia Qin. Twenty-three. An English major, freshly graduated, and… back in 2015?
This wasn't just waking up.
This was rebirth.
The hours that followed passed in a blur. Doctors came and went. Tests were run. Her mother—a much younger version of her mother—arrived, eyes red from crying but alight with joy at Mia's recovery.
"Sweetheart," she said, brushing hair from Mia's forehead. "You scared me to death. They said you had a fever and collapsed in class… How do you feel now?"
Mia stared at her. This was her mother, Linda, not yet weighed down by the years, not yet graying, still vibrant. It was all too much.
"I… I feel fine," Mia managed.
She spent the rest of the day feigning confusion, trying to act like the girl she was supposed to be. Inside, though, her thoughts ran wild.
This isn't a dream. I know what year it is. I know what comes next. The world will change.
In just a few months, she remembered, a new job opportunity would arise—one she had once dismissed. The man she would later marry—and divorce—would soon enter her life. And the choices she made would lead to both her greatest joy and deepest regret.
Now, with knowledge of the future, she had a chance to rewrite it all.
That night, Mia sat by the hospital window, looking out at the darkening sky. Neon signs flickered. Somewhere below, a bus honked. The city was alive, unaware that one of its daughters had returned from the dead—with a second chance.
She clenched her fists.
I won't make the same mistakes.
This time, she thought, things would be different.