Shen Anran had stopped counting the days.
At some point, numbers lost meaning inside the isolation ward. Morning and night blurred together under the same pale lights, the same steady beeping of machines, the same silence that pressed against her ears until it felt louder than noise.
Her throat hurt like something tearing but in a dull, swollen way, as if it had forgotten how to exist without pain. Each breath scraped slightly on the way in, like air passing through something damaged.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling.
White. Too white.
The room smelled aggressively clean. Disinfectant, alcohol, something bitter that clung to the back of her nose and refused to leave. Even after days, she couldn't get used to it.
COVID-19.
She still hadn't accepted it.
She had followed the rules. Washed her hands. Worn her mask. Avoided crowds. And in that single moment she had slipped.
Yet here she was.
Alone.
Her phone rested on the small table beside the bed, screen dark. She hadn't touched it in hours. What was the point? Everyone she knew was scared. Everyone was tired. No one knew what to say anymore.
She swallowed and winced.
Her chest felt heavy—not crushing, not yet—but wrong. Like something was sitting where her lungs should be, quietly reminding her that it could tighten at any moment.
Shen Anran shifted, trying to sit up.
The movement was a mistake.
Dizziness swept over her in a sudden wave, sharp enough to steal her breath. She gasped, fingers clawing weakly at the sheets as the room tilted and swayed.
"Wait—" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Her heart began to race.
She tried to breathe slowly, the way they had taught her. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
It didn't help.
The edges of her vision darkened, creeping inward like ink soaking into paper. A strange ringing filled her ears, growing louder with every heartbeat.
This isn't how it's supposed to end, she thought distantly.
She wasn't ready.
She hadn't done anything worth remembering yet.
Her chest tightened.
She opened her mouth to call for help, but no sound came out. The effort sent a sharp pain through her lungs, and she folded inward, coughing weakly into her elbow.
The room felt very far away now.
Her thoughts scattered, slipping through her fingers no matter how hard she tried to hold on.
The last thing she felt was a deep, aching cold—settling somewhere beneath her ribs.
Then everything went dark.
When Shen Anran woke, she thought she was still dreaming.
The air felt wrong.
Warm. Thick. Heavy with unfamiliar scents. Not disinfectant. Not alcohol. Not the sterile nothingness of a hospital.
This air smelled… alive.
She inhaled sharply—and froze.
Her chest didn't hurt.
No tightness. No burning. No resistance.
Her eyes flew open.
Above her was not a ceiling of white tiles, but rough wooden boards darkened with age. Sunlight slipped through thin cracks, painting narrow golden lines across the room.
She lay very still.
Her heart began to pound.
Slowly, cautiously, she lifted one hand into view.
It wasn't the hand she knew.
The skin was rougher. The fingers slimmer, joints slightly swollen. There were faint calluses along the palm—evidence of work she had never done.
Her breath hitched.
"No…" she whispered.
The voice that came out startled her.
Younger. Softer. Unfamiliar.
She sat up abruptly.
The world didn't spin.
Her body moved easily, smoothly, as if it had never known sickness at all. Strength flowed through her limbs, quiet but undeniable.
Panic surged.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed—no, not a bed. A narrow wooden frame with a thin mattress stuffed with something that crackled faintly beneath her weight.
The floor was cold under her bare feet.
Mud-stained.
Her gaze darted around the room. A small table. A cracked mirror. Clothes folded neatly on a stool—simple, plain, old-fashioned.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't even modern.
Her chest tightened again, but this time it wasn't illness.
It was fear.
A shout echoed outside, followed by hurried footsteps.
"Anran!"
The door creaked open, and a woman rushed in, her face drawn with worry. She looked older than Shen Anran remembered feeling—lined, tired—but her eyes softened the moment they landed on her.
"You're awake," the woman said, voice trembling with relief. "Thank goodness. You scared us half to death."
Us?
Shen Anran stared at her, her mind blank.
The woman reached out instinctively, pressing a hand to her forehead. "No fever," she muttered. "Good. Good…"
Shen Anran flinched at the touch.
Her thoughts raced wildly, colliding into each other with no order, no sense.
Hospital. COVID. Isolation.
Wood. Sunlight. Mud.
She was alive.
She was healthy.
And somehow—impossibly—she was no longer in 2020.