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Lin Guoqiang opened his eyes violently.

The target was not the ceiling of the hospital, but a roof that had been plastered with old newspapers.

The newspaper has turned yellow, and the corners are turned up, revealing cracks.

There is a water stain in the corner of the wall, shaped like a lying cat.

There is no smell of disinfectant in the air. It is a mixture of earth, firewood and pig food, a smell unique to Chinese rural areas in the 1980s.

​​The sound of a rooster crowing was heard in my ears, and then the sound of a neighbor's dog barking.

A little further away, the loudspeaker of the village brigade was playing "On the Field of Hope".

"Our hometown is in the field of hope..."

Lin Guoqiang was stunned.

He slowly turned his head and saw a person lying on the kang next to him.

Zhao Sumei.

No, not that Zhao Sumei with gray hair and wrinkles.

It is young Zhao Sumei, with two thick black braids and healthy wheat-colored skin.

Her lips were slightly pursed, and her brows were furrowed in her sleep, as if she was having an unpleasant dream.

Next to her, a little girl about three years old was curled up in her arms, her little face buried in the crook of her arm, only half of her head and a bunch of yellow hair showing.

It’s the eldest daughter Lin Jing.

Next to it, a little baby was wrapped in an old quilt, with its mouth slightly open and breathing evenly.

It is the second daughter, Lin Wei, who is only one year old.

Lin Guoqiang lay motionless on the kang as if he had been struck by lightning.

He slowly raised his hand.

Those are a pair of young hands. Although they are rough and calloused, the skin is firm and the joints are strong.

“It’s not like in the previous life, so thin that only a layer of skin is left covering the bones.

He sat up suddenly, his movement was so big that he woke up Zhao Sumei next to him.

"Um... Guoqiang? What's wrong with you?"

Zhao Sumei opened her eyes drowsily and rubbed her eyes, "It's not bright yet, let's sleep a little longer."

Lin Guoqiang did not answer.

He turned his head and stared at Zhao Sumei's face.

Twenty-five-year-old Zhao Sumei.

Her eyebrows have not been fully stretched, and there is a shallow vertical line between her eyebrows, which is the trace left by years of hard work.

But her eyes are bright, her lips are full, and there are two healthy blushes on her cheeks.

She is alive.

She is still young.

She has not been overwhelmed by life yet.

Lin Guoqiang’s eyes suddenly turned red.

"What's wrong with you?" Zhao Sumei was completely awake now. She propped up her arms and reached out to touch his forehead, "Do you have a fever? Or are you having a nightmare?"

Nightmare. Page (1/3)