The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the small, unfamiliar room.
He blinked against the brightness, still groggy and disoriented.
"Where am I?" The question hovered in his mind, unsteady and strange. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off a heavy fog that clung to his thoughts.
Everything felt… different. The bed was softer than he remembered, and the air smelled faintly of fresh flowers.
He swung his legs over the side and stood up, but his movements felt awkward—lighter, somehow.
Glancing down, panic prickled his skin. His hands were smaller, smoother. His arms thinner.
"What's going on?"
He staggered toward the mirror on the wall and froze.
The reflection staring back was not his own. Long, silky hair framed a delicate face with wide, confused eyes. The jawline was soft, the cheekbones subtle.
"No… this can't be," he whispered, voice cracking in surprise.
He stared at his reflection, heart pounding.
Suddenly, a flood of memories poured in — not his own, but this body's.
He saw a cramped room with peeling paint and a worn-out wooden bed. The faint sound of children laughing and crying echoed down a narrow hallway. Faces of other orphans — some kind, some indifferent — flashed in his mind.
A cold, empty feeling of loneliness settled deep inside.
He remembered waking up every morning to the creaking of the orphanage floorboards, the meager meals served in silence, and the nights spent staring at the cracked ceiling, wondering if anyone cared.
These memories weren't his, but they felt painfully real.
His breathing hitched as he realized: 'This is my new life. I'm inside the body of a girl who grew up here — alone.'
Before all this—before waking up as a girl in an orphanage—he was someone else.
A man alone in the world.
His parents had died years ago in a tragic accident, leaving him to fend for himself. The loneliness weighed on him like a heavy cloak, but he kept pushing forward. No family, no safety net—just endless work to survive.
He worked long hours in a noisy factory, the grind of machinery a constant reminder of how small he was in a vast, uncaring world.
Night after night, he returned to his empty apartment, the silence almost unbearable.
One night, disaster struck.
A fire broke out in the factory. Flames roared, smoke thick and suffocating.
Without hesitation, he ran back inside to save a trapped coworker, despite the danger.
The ceiling collapsed.
Darkness swallowed him.
He never woke up.
Now, in this fragile new body, with memories not his own, the weight of loneliness pressed down again.
Just as the swirling thoughts in Qin Lan's head began to settle, a gentle knock echoed on the door.
"Lan Lan, wake up! We're gonna be late for the awakening ceremony!"
The voice was soft but carried a warm urgency.
She turned toward the door as it opened slowly, and there stood Lin Yue, her childhood friend.
Lin Yue stood quietly in the doorway, a calm presence amidst the whirlwind of emotions.
Her long, jet-black hair cascaded smoothly over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed carved from porcelain — delicate yet strong.
Her eyes, a deep shade of brown, held a kindness and quiet confidence that made the room feel lighter just by her presence.
Though dressed simply in the orphanage's plain uniform, there was an effortless grace to her movements.
She smiled gently, a hint of worry in her expression.
"We have to go. You don't want to be late on your first awakening day, do you?"
Qin Lan blinked, feeling a strange comfort wash over her — like no matter how much had changed, some things remained constant.
"Alright, Yue'er. I'm coming."
Lin Yue's smile grew wider. "That's my Lan Lan."
After washing up and taming her tangled hair as best she could, Qin Lan stepped out of her room and into the hallway.
The familiar scent of old wood and soap filled her nose. The orphanage hall stretched ahead—narrow, dimly lit, and creaking with every step. Faded wallpapers peeled slightly at the corners, and the once-bright paint on the wooden walls had dulled to a tired gray.
Small shoes lined the side of the hallway—neatly arranged by the younger kids last night. Faint morning sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows, casting warm stripes of light across the floor.
Children's laughter echoed faintly from the dining area at the far end. The distant clatter of bowls and the soft voice of the orphanage matron calling for order drifted through the air.
Despite the age and wear, there was warmth in the place — the warmth of shared struggles, shared dreams, and bonds forged in hardship.
Lin Yue waited a few steps ahead, hands behind her back, her calm eyes watching Qin Lan approach.
The dining room was filled with a low hum of chatter and the clinking of utensils.
Qin Lan followed Lin Yue to their usual spot at the wooden table near the corner. A bowl of warm porridge and a steamed bun sat waiting for her, simple but comforting.
The old matron shuffled between tables, checking on the younger children with her ever-weary but gentle expression. She paused when she saw them. "Eat up, girls. Big day today," she said with a faint smile before moving on.
Qin Lan stared down at the porridge for a moment, her chest tightening.
"This'll be our last breakfast here," Lin Yue said quietly, sitting beside her. "Once we awaken, we're considered adults. No more subsidy. We can't stay."
Qin Lan took a small bite, the taste somehow richer today — heavier, like it carried the weight of all her memories.
"I thought I'd be happy to leave," she muttered. "Start something new. But…"
"It still feels like we're leaving home," Yue'er finished for her, gaze lowered.
The two sat in silence for a moment as the younger kids giggled around them, unaware of how much was about to change.
"I'm glad I have you with me," Qin Lan whispered.
Yue'er turned to her with a soft smile. "Always."
The morning sun bathed the narrow street in soft gold as Qin Lan and Lin Yue stepped out of the iron gates of Morning Dew Orphanage.
Their footsteps echoed gently along the gravel path. The bag slung over Qin Lan's shoulder felt light, but her chest held a strange weight — a mixture of someone else's memories and a life she hadn't lived.
They reached the edge of the path, where the orphanage disappeared behind the bend. Lin Yue suddenly stopped.
She turned back.
Qin Lan followed her gaze, watching as Yue'er stood still, her expression unreadable.
The old building sat quietly in the sunlight, its peeling walls and crooked windows familiar and weathered — like a wrinkled hand that had held them for years.
"…We used to race to the gates every morning," Lin Yue said softly, her voice almost carried away by the breeze. "You'd always let me win, just so I'd smile."
Qin Lan blinked. The memories stirred in her mind, but they weren't hers. They belonged to the real Qin Lan — the girl who'd grown up here, laughed here, cried here.
Not her.
But Lin Yue didn't seem to notice the quiet distance in her eyes.
"You said we'd leave together," Yue'er whispered. "That one day, we'd stand on our own."
Her hands clenched at her sides for a moment, then loosened.
Qin Lan looked at the building again. It was… unfamiliar. Nostalgic, maybe. But only through borrowed emotions.
The front door creaked open, and the old matron peeked out. She didn't wave — just offered them a knowing nod. Lin Yue bowed slightly in return.
"…We'll be fine," Lin Yue said, more to herself than anyone else. "We have each other."
Qin Lan didn't know how to reply. So she reached out and gently took Yue'er's hand.
"Let's go," she said softly.
And with that, they turned away from Morning Dew Orphanage — Lin Yue carrying memories, Qin Lan carrying the weight of a new life.
"Qin Lan… you can rest in peace now. I'll live this life for the both of us."