“Mom, what is grandpa doing?”
Wearing sneakers, Zhang Wenda held his mother’s slightly cold hand and walked through an unusually empty garden plaza.
As his gaze swept across, he saw a group of elderly people wearing aluminum pots over their heads—covered at the brim—and hovering upright in mid‑air, holding hands to form an oval.
This scene, in the setting sun, looked like a wax‑yellow photograph, deeply imprinted in Zhang Wenda’s mind.
“Practicing qigong; stop staring, hurry up!”
Zhang Wenda stumbled as a large hand yanked him, and in an instant his feet went empty, a strong sense of weightlessness hit, and he fell into endless darkness.
“Ha!!” With a cold sweat, he jolted upright in bed; the moment he opened his eyes, he finally shook off that feeling of despair.
Only when he saw the zip‑front wardrobe in front of him did he realize it had just been a dream.
“Damn, what a weird dream.”
He remembered that the old man used to practice some kind of info‑pot qigong for a while, but as far as he knew, his grandpa only did qigong as an excuse to get in close contact with middle‑aged and elderly women.
He had never believed in it, and he never floated in the air.
But later, after he strained his waist practicing qigong, he stopped going, stayed home all day, and decided to devote his remaining years to inventing a perpetual motion machine for the Four Modernizations of the motherland.
“Ha~” he yawned, opened his mouth, then stretched vigorously with both arms.
“That old codger, what’s the point of giving me this dream?”
“I’ve been a fitter all my life; don’t act like those artsy symbolic types, I’m tired enough going to work every day—I don’t have the energy to guess riddles.”
While speaking, he scratched his back, got off the bed, and methodically picked up the clothes at the foot of the bed to dress.
Then, after putting on the obviously one‑size‑too‑big sneakers, he paused—sneakers? Those weren’t the shoes he wore yesterday.
While his mind was recovering from the dream about his grandfather, his gaze subconsciously looked around, and he finally noticed something was off.
What appeared before him was a roughly 30–40 m², old and slightly cluttered small room.
It was a single room; the peeling wall plaster exposed red brick, proving its age.
His gaze moved from the pile of black briquettes stacked by the door to the sky‑blue zipper wardrobe with white doves next to it.
The wardrobe looked bulky and tilted because it was overstuffed.
Then his eyes moved from the old wooden table holding money and old photos under glass to the black‑and‑white TV with two extendable power cords beside it.
Looking at everything familiar yet strange, his expression shifted from bewilderment to shock.
“This is… this is… this is my old home? The same tube‑block building I lived in as a child?! Am I still in a dream?”
With a sudden “smack”, he slapped himself; the pain immediately sobered him, but nothing around him had changed.
“I… did I travel through time? Have I gone back to my childhood?”
His breathing grew rapid, his heart pounded fast, and he quickly walked over to a trunk, picked up the pink flower‑shaped mirror with a woman painted on the back.
Looking into the mirror at his young face, he still felt a strong sense of unreality; but as he touched his well‑textured hair and noticed its thick volume, he was moved to the point of tears.
Back then it seemed ordinary; never having grown up, he had never realized how thick his hair had been.
“For the sake of my hair, this time I absolutely won’t stay up late! Damn it, if I go to bed after nine, I’m a dog!”
He trembled as he touched his smooth, tender skin; his excitement was uncontrollable.
“I’m back? I really am back?” Zhang Wenda could no longer think about how he’d returned; right now he remembered only one thing: he’d get rich!!
Most importantly, he still had his past memories—he could buy stocks, buy Bitcoin, buy property.
With his past knowledge, he could make money even blindfolded and achieve financial freedom!
“I’ll never be a corporate slave again! When I have money, I want to be like my uncle! I’ll do whatever I want! I want to travel the world! I want to build a harem!!”
Zhang Wenda paced back and forth in the room, even starting to plan how he would spend money once he was rich, when suddenly he stopped, his gaze fixed on the black‑and‑white TV in front of him.
He reached behind the TV and pulled out a Water Margin “Wu Song” card—the small card showing Wu Song carrying a long spear with a wine gourd in the snow from Water Margin.
Back then his desk‑mate had convinced him Wu Song’s card was the rarest of the 108 generals, so he treasured it like a prized possession. Later he discovered these cards were everywhere.
Touching this childhood treasure, feeling its familiar texture and smelling the ink, all his excited ideas drifted away.
He looked at the award certificate still stuck on the wall, then at the stationery box and homework notebook not yet put into his schoolbag, and he couldn’t help smiling from the heart—he was back, how wonderful.
At this moment, all thoughts of getting rich vanished; those things just needed the right moves at the right time—what he needed now was to cherish this precious youth.
As if recalling something, a touch of emotion and struggle appeared in his eyes; but looking at the familiar surroundings, he exhaled slowly and stood up.
He reached out and touched everything in the small room, his fingers tracing every mark and memory; the sensation nearly brought tears to his eyes.
Flowers may bloom again, but youth never returns—everything was starting anew, so he could make up for all past regrets and avoid all wrong choices.
As he gazed around in emotion, he sensed something was strange. This place, every inch, had been part of his life; he should know it intimately.
He knew when the world map was pasted on the wall, he knew when some household items were acquired, he even knew where his treasures were hidden.
This was his home, he should be thoroughly familiar—yet now it felt off, though he couldn’t say exactly how. “Strange.”
After carefully inspecting around, his gaze fixed on the wall clock—it was indeed the family’s clock, but as he approached and observed closely, he realized the strange sensation’s source.
It was supposed to be a 12‑hour clock, yet the numbers weren’t 1–12—they were densely doubled, from 1 to 24.
“What the heck?” Zhang Wenda thought he’d been seeing things; but after rubbing his eyes, he found it was really that way.
“It must be the cheap clock my uncle resold as surplus… no, wait—I remember we never used this kind of clock at home.” The inexplicable clock stirred unease in Zhang Wenda’s heart.
“By the way, what year is it now?” Zhang Wenda said as he walked over to the TV and reached to turn it on—he needed to confirm the time.
The next second, accompanied by static hissing and swirling snow, a vague female voice came through.
“This piece of junk wouldn’t get any takers even for free.”
Zhang Wenda muttered as he started flipping through channels.
But even after changing several times, it was all noisy static; he instinctively reached to thump the top of the TV.
There was technique to slapping a TV, and thankfully after all these years, he hadn’t forgotten the method.
With a left‑slap and a right‑slap, some images flickered on the TV—seemed like a woman anchoring the news—but soon static snow blotched it out again, making Zhang Wenda furious.
“Damn! Could you have hit harder?” With that, he gave the back of the TV one heavy smack, causing it to lurch forward—and then something unexpected happened.
The static fuzz on the screen oozed out like viscous lava, and a large glob nailed itself to Zhang Wenda’s arm.