A few days had passed since he "woke up". Life seemed to have remained the same—a ten-year-old boy, living in an old wooden house, going to school, eating his mother's cooking, listening to the hoarse radio every morning. But only he knew that behind that normalcy was something distorted, strange, and inexplicable.
He didn't tell anyone about the accident. Nor did he mention that he had died. Because… he himself wasn't sure if it was real or just a terrifyingly long dream.
That morning, his mother was busy in the kitchen, turned around and said:
> "Yin Yao, I'm busy. Help me make some tea!"
He nodded. The kettle was always on the high shelf. He looked around—the small stool he usually used was nowhere to be seen. Hesitantly, he tiptoed and reached for it. His fingers touched the metal handle.
Suddenly, he heard hurried footsteps. Mom appeared right behind him, her face worried.
> "Be careful—!"
The water jug tipped over.
The sound of liquid pouring down, burning. His mother rushed forward, shielding him. A scream rang out—ripping through the air.
Her arm was red, steam rising from it. Her face was twisted in pain, but she still turned around:
> "Are you... okay?"
He panicked. He hugged her, shouted for help. His hands were shaking, the phone slipped from his hand twice before he could call an ambulance.
The neighbors rushed in. Everything was like a thick black cloud swallowing the small kitchen. When his mother was taken away, he sat still in the corner, his eyes dull.
> "Just get a chair... that's all..."
"Am I... wrong again?"
The phone rang. Dad's voice came from the other end:
> "Your mother's burns are very severe. She'll probably be in the hospital for a long time... the doctor said she needs to be monitored."
He couldn't hold back his tears. He collapsed.
His heart ached.
Not like when he was injured, but a deep, internal contraction—a vague but familiar feeling. His pulse was racing, then suddenly stopped.
---
"Heart stopped... but the cause is unknown. No signs of illness. No mechanical damage."
---
It was cold.
There was no hospital bed. No emergency bell.
Just the old wooden ceiling. A small window letting in the gray morning light. And the smell of thin porridge like every other morning.
That voice rang out from downstairs again:
> "Yin Yao! Come down and eat!"
He sat up. Sweat soaked his back. His eyes darted around the room.
Nothing had changed. He was still a child. Everything... went back to normal.
But his heart was no longer at peace.
> "I... am dead... right?"
He wondered, unable to find an answer. Everything was too real to be a dream, but also too vague to be real.
Once again, he was faced with a loop without reason, without signs, without warning. It was as if the world was testing him with a cruel game—where every mistake cost him his life.
Yin Yao clenched his fists, looking up at the familiar ceiling.
> "Why come back again…?"
No one answered.