Time Travel

In my previous life, as my Imperial Younger Brother and I were being hacked into mincemeat by a flurry of blades, the Imperial Son-in-Law stood outside the bamboo grove, cold and detached, as if he were a mere bystander.

In this life, I looked at the handsome gigolo kneeling before me-the same man who had once died while shielding me from a blade-and I couldn’t help but smile.

“You’ll do.”

It has been ten years since I died.

After a decade, I have finally seen the first person to come and pay their respects at my grave.

It is a man, limping as he walks toward me.

It is my father.

I suspect my cat has someone on the side.

Lately, it keeps coming home late, and there’s always a sweet cucumber scent lingering on its fur.

Even more infuriating, winter has only just arrived, and it’s already wearing a flashy red vest that clearly costs four figures!

I took this as a provocation, so I rolled up a note and attached it to the cat’s collar: “Thank you for the vest, but this cat already has an owner.”

The next day, my cat came home, and the note around its neck had been replaced by one in an unfamiliar hand, written with absolute certainty. “Sorry, but this cat can only be mine.”