Jade of Another World

Lin Ning's Book of Rebirth

I, Zhang Yin of the 21st century, and Lin Ning of the King, opened my eyes for the last time in the sky above the central palace, like a phantom.

The water droplets clinging to my eyelashes made me vaguely see the display board lifted by the draft—"A Qing Dynasty crystal coffin, the body remarkably well-preserved." My fingertips twitched, and I realized I was still clutching the blood-stained peach blossom embroidered handkerchief. The corner was embroidered with "May the moonlight flow to illuminate you," the stitches crooked like characters Nangong Jin had written with his feet when he was drunk.

So it really is possible to see your past life after death. I saw seven-year-old Lin Ning laughing under a peach tree, sharing candied hawthorns with two princes, unaware that one of them would bury the hawthorn pits in the Imperial Garden, where they would grow into a vast peach orchard; I saw Nangong Jin testing medicine on himself during the plague; I saw him crawling through piles of corpses for three days and three nights, carrying a marriage certificate soaked in blood in his arms; I also saw him carving words in front of a crystal coffin in his later years, each "Ning" still warm from his body, muttering to himself as he remained there, until he carved himself into the mad emperor in history books.

The most painful moment wasn't when I was poisoned, but when he held me and said, "My empire, would you like to come and see it with me again?" He didn't know that back in 2023 in Longquanyi, Chengdu, I had already seen a peach orchard even larger than the Imperial Garden. Back then, I was like an ordinary girl, possessing the utmost innocence and cheerfulness. I held up a selfie stick, pointing at the wine jar he had buried a hundred years ago, and said, "Whose elegant work is this? Will he know that modern peach blossoms will bear fruit, and that the fruit will be large and sweet?"

Time travel wasn't a serendipitous encounter, but a long process of recognizing and embracing different parts of time. I reclaimed the little crybaby's candied hawthorns, the engagement, the companionship, the candied fruit he hid at the bottom of his medicine bowl during the epidemic, the glorious years of growing up together, and the "Ning" he carved into the ninety-nine peach blossom stamens. Only now did my heart feel as if it had been ripped away, an endless pain accompanying me, until I saw the peace buckle peeking out from under my plain gauze dress in the display case—a gift from my mother before I time travel. It turns out the ties between the two worlds had long since woven a cocoon binding me, preventing me from escaping the walls of my heart and the shackles of love you erected for me. Love itself is a shackle, a net you wove for me, trapping my body. Now that I'm dead, it seems as if my soul has also been trapped.

Nangong Jin, do you know? I... actually... lived a very good life in modern times. My husband's eyes looked just like yours. He would tell me stories of the Qing Dynasty when I had insomnia, unaware that the "Empress Ning" in the book was lying beside him, secretly shedding tears. Later, I got divorced and buried my wedding ring under the peach tree in Longquanyi. At that moment, I suddenly understood: back in the Dayu era, I had already given my heart to the emperor wielding a sword. Nangong Jin, I lost. Now I admit defeat. Can you come to my side...?

Do you know, the peach blossoms at the bottom of the crystal coffin have bloomed again. This time, it wasn't the warm jade from the Western Regions that brought them to bloom, but the spring breeze of 2025, like you traveling through a century to kiss me. I finally dare to reach out and touch the moonlight on the top of the coffin, where it seems he carved small words with a dragon-patterned dagger: "Ning'er, in the next life, I will come to see you, okay?"

"Nangong Jin, when will you come? I'm afraid I won't be able to wait for you, I'm afraid I'll be too old, I'm afraid..."

(Note: In 2026, an archaeological discovery in Longquanyi revealed a rusty metal marriage certificate buried under a century-old peach tree. The certificate was yellowed with rust, and the signature of "Nangong Jin" appeared to have been blurred into the shape of a peach blossom by tears. On the same day, the body inside the crystal coffin in the Forbidden City mysteriously disappeared, suspected to have been instantly oxidized, leaving only fragments of peach petals, which, upon testing, contained components of human blood.)