The sound of monitors.
The antiseptic sting of hospital light.
And her name — the real one — being spoken over and over again.
"Dr. Lin. She's waking up."
"Her vitals are stabilizing."
"She's coming back."
She came back.
Not as Eira.
Not as a girl in silk robes or a whispered prophecy.
But as Dr. Lin Mei, 29 years old, surgical resident, comatose for 11 days after a fall from the rooftop of Chenzhou University.
The accident report said she'd hit her head during the storm.
Her vitals had dipped dangerously low.
Some said she was lucky.
But she didn't feel lucky.
She felt… lost.
Like she had left something behind.
Someone.
In the days that followed, Mei barely spoke.
She let the nurses fuss over her, answered the psychiatrists with polite detachment, and told her colleagues what they wanted to hear:
"Yes, I understand what happened."
"Yes, I know where I am."
"Yes, I remember everything."
But she didn't.
Not fully.
Not the hospital. Not the university.
Not the life that once fit her so easily.
Instead, what she remembered were fragments:
A red-robed man beneath a cherry blossom tree.
A broken watch that ticked in two timelines.
A promise made in rain.
And a name that didn't exist here.
Kai.
One night, she slipped out of bed and walked to the window.
The city lights shimmered below, the sound of sirens faint in the distance.
And for a moment, she thought she saw him — just a silhouette on the street corner.
He looked up.
She blinked.
Gone.
Later, when she was discharged, Mei found herself drawn back to the old university watchtower.
It had been sealed off since the accident.
But she climbed the fence anyway.
The rooftop was quiet.
No veil. No shimmer. No time fracture.
Just the wind, and the rain, and a strange sense of emptiness.
She sat at the edge, dangling her feet over the ledge, her hands wrapped around something in her coat pocket.
The watch.
Still cracked.
Still ticking.
She stared at it for a long time.
And whispered:
"I remember you."
Across the city, in a crowded museum, a new exhibit was being quietly installed.
"Echoes of Forgotten Dynasties."
Among the relics was a scroll — ancient, delicate, impossible — that no historian could fully place.
Its ink was faded, but the final line was clear:
The third life ends in choice.
One stays. One fades.
But not forever.
In the corner of the museum, a man stood, staring at the glass case.
Dark coat. Quiet eyes.
He reached into his pocket and touched a silver orchid pin — modern, but unfamiliar.
He didn't know why he had it.
He didn't know where it came from.
But somehow…
It felt like home.