Chapter 2: The Return of Winter

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The rewind was triggered.

With overwhelming astonishment, the entire world before his eyes flickered like a black-and-white film negative.

His consciousness blanked out, as if flying out of his body.

This was the phenomenon of “rewind.”

Zhang Shutong was all too familiar with it. When his consciousness returned, although his body had yet to regain sensation, a sudden buzzing in his mind instantly sounded an alarm.

Someone wanted to kill him!

He didn’t even have time to ponder the cause of the rewind. The moments of time jumps were often very close together, especially in the event of a sudden attack.

Was it seconds ago? Or minutes?

Would he return to the forbidden zone of the waters, or on the way there, or was someone already watching him in the hotel?

He struggled to calm his breathing and rapidly devised a plan.

He had to save himself first.

Rehearsing the upcoming scenes in his mind, even preparing alternative plans, his senses finally returned. He took a deep breath, his limbs moving instinctively, then suddenly opened his eyes—

But...

Where was this?

The world before him didn’t match any of his imagined answers. That pitch-black winter night was long gone;

He seemed to be sitting in a classroom.

One unfamiliar scene after another appeared before his eyes:

Straight ahead was a blackboard; in the corner of his eye, he saw children in school uniforms; in front of him was a desk painted black, and on the open exercise book...

Everything around was silent except for the rustling sound of pen tips gliding over paper.

Nothing here connected to the attack—or rather, to his current predicament.

Looking closer, even these hands weren’t his own, slightly smaller and paler, still holding a pen.

But the faint white scar on the base of the thumb looked very familiar—it was a childhood scar.

A sudden guess surged in his chest.

Zhang Shutong turned his head in disbelief, finally fixing his gaze on the electronic calendar at the back of the classroom.

The red pixelated digits displayed the current date:

Wednesday, December 5, 2012.

He... had actually returned eight years in the past!

...

It might have been just a few minutes, or maybe longer—he didn’t bother to calculate the exact time. Perhaps after his heart had pounded hundreds of times, Zhang Shutong slowly exhaled and confirmed the reality before him.

He had truly come back.

Unlike rebirth, this was a one-time leap across eight years, made possible by his rewind ability.

He also clearly understood the current time—he had counted on his fingers several times—it was the first semester of ninth grade.

It wasn’t that he was bad at math; these years of life had nearly erased his sense of time.

When recalling a specific year, he could vaguely remember what he was doing, such as attending middle school, but figuring out exactly which grade required serious reflection.

As for his present situation:

This was probably a self-study class, so everyone around was quietly doing homework.

His deskmate looked unfamiliar. He couldn’t recall the name, but he wasn’t the type to be a problem child. When faced with unexpected events, he preferred to think things through himself first.

The most familiar thing was the exercise book open in front of him. He flipped through it twice—it was English, with a blue cover titled “Five Years of High School Entrance Exam, Three Years of Mock Tests.” Impossible to forget.

Looking outside again, through the iron-barred window, he saw the ground outside the teaching building;

It must have snowed that day eight years ago. The red was the rubberized playground, surrounded by a ring of white snow.

This was certainly not good weather—the clouds hung low and the light was dim. All the lights in the classroom were on, the only similarity to eight years later.

But more questions arose:

Why had he rewound?

Why eight years ago?

And who wanted to kill him?

There was one matter more pressing than all these, even more than his own death—

Did the rewind ability still exist?

Now it was the first semester of ninth grade; the accident had happened during the summer after the entrance exam.

Faintly excited, he recalled a famous paradox:

If a person traveled through time and killed their grandfather before he married or had children, would that person succeed?

Zhang Shutong didn’t care whether his grandfather died or not. The fact was that he had returned, which meant—

If he avoided that temple and the accident in the future, he could live a normal life.

A normal life, a chance to start over...

This was a thought buried deep within his heart for many years, never daring to hope for it, yet now it had become reality.

He pressed his lips tightly, but a smile crept irresistibly across his face. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, trying not to make a sound, his body trembling slightly.

He imagined sixteen-year-old Zhang Shutong would jump out of the classroom and rush to the rooftop, releasing the joy bottled up near the sky.

But twenty-four-year-old Zhang Shutong only wanted to sit quietly in his seat, savoring this moment of excitement, recalling the face of his sixteen-year-old self.

Though there was no mirror nearby, he could still picture his past appearance: hair that never lay flat, youthful features, a straight nose, clear lip line, and eyes always bright with spirit.

He had always thought the future held countless possibilities. Although after many years he realized he had been moving in one direction all along, ultimately he had returned to the starting point, hadn’t he?

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He recalled a line of unknown origin:

“A person found a real gun in the summer when he was thirteen or fourteen. Out of youthful ignorance, he pulled the trigger. No one died or was injured; he thought it was an empty shot. Later, when he was thirty or older, walking down the street, he heard a faint whoosh behind him. He stopped, turned around, and a bullet struck his forehead.”

A bullet from eight years ago had struck his forehead.

Zhang Shutong sincerely thanked that bullet.

After composing himself and looking up again, everything before him appeared endearing:

The oversized school uniform jacket symbolized youth; a pool of clear water gleamed in the snow-covered playground; even the open “Five Years of High School Entrance Exam, Three Years of Mock Tests”...

Well, after a couple of glances, he found it not so endearing after all.

Having been through quite a lot, Zhang Shutong quickly calmed down after the initial excitement.

Though he wanted to enjoy a carefree second chance at life, some things demanded clarity.

For instance, what exactly was this strange rewind?

After a moment’s thought, he almost had it figured out.

It was known that he had been killed.

The trigger condition was “something bad happened nearby.”

He had always believed the ability wouldn’t affect himself.

Now he realized maybe the severity had just never been enough.

Minor injuries, bad moods—psychological or physical troubles—were far below the threshold; only his own death could trigger rewind.

At this thought, Zhang Shutong was at a loss for words.

He hadn’t died all these years, so sorry for not finding any other use for you.

The second question was easily solved:

Every time the time jumped, it returned to a key moment before the incident.

Did this mean the cause of his death traced back eight years?

The phantom pain at the back of his neck was still there; the attacker was accurate and ruthless, basically targeting him directly.

But with so much time between, even if he wanted to do something, all that remained was bewilderment.

Today was December 5; he had died on December 12 eight years later. More precisely, he had returned to eight years and eight days earlier.

This date was impossible for him to ignore.

“By now it’s already spread everywhere; it’s not a matter of knowing or not, but which version you believe…”

The conversation from a few hours ago echoed in his ears, and a wildly implausible guess surfaced—

Could it be a silencing?

Zhang Shutong’s mood was complicated.

He disliked rash conclusions, but if he took Dukang’s words seriously, everything fell into place.

Suppose the murderer killed the missing girl eight years ago;

Eight years later, for some reason, struck Lu Qinglian;

Then, believing some absurd rumors, such as someone tipping off the killer, which spread like wildfire, eventually targeting himself.

Only in this way could it explain why he returned to a point before the case had occurred.

Tearing off a scrap of paper, he wrote his own name, then Lu Qinglian’s, and finally the name of the murdered girl, which he thought was Gu Qiumian.

He scribbled some symbols to help organize his thoughts—only he could understand them—like a suspect relationship chart during an investigation.

Connecting the three names formed a triangle. Zhang Shutong stared at it for a long time, thinking how unjust his death was.

Everyone knows the triangle is the most stable structure—so stable that one of them must die. The three were like grasshoppers on the same rope.

But at least the outcome was good—he had a chance to live again and to prevent two murders.

With this in mind, he instinctively looked for those two figures.

He couldn’t find Lu Qinglian; there was an empty seat in class, maybe she had stepped out.

But he did find the other—Gu Qiumian, a pretty girl sitting by the window, with mid-length hair and an oval face, wrapped in a thick scarf.

Her school uniform was draped over the chair back; she wore a beige plaid sweater, not flashy but exquisitely out of place on her.

Zhang Shutong couldn’t tell if she was cold or not.

If cold, she should be wearing her jacket; if not cold, then why the scarf?

He couldn’t recall her exact appearance; the reason he noticed her immediately was not only her beauty but also how conspicuous she was.

While others were studying, she idly breathed on the glass, her fingertips dancing out a mess of lines. After she finished, Zhang Shutong couldn’t tell what it was—a funny face?

She seemed to be the only one in the whole classroom not focused on work... maybe just her and himself.

Staring at that funny face, more memories surfaced.

Just as her beauty and the silly face she drew were incongruous, Gu Qiumian was never quite the same kind as the other classmates.

Qiumian, as her name suggests, means “autumn rain continuous,” yet her personality was never soft or lingering but rather like freezing rain at the turn of spring and winter.

When in a good mood, she was fine, but if provoked, the cold rain would sting painfully.

Zhang Shutong knew the word “young lady” didn’t quite fit this remote island, but in fact, she was one.

Gu’s father was a wealthy businessman, among the earliest to prosper after the reform era.

His enterprises spread widely—not nationwide, but at least renowned within the province.

Originally developing in the neighboring provincial capital, perhaps weary of a successful but lonely life, he took a liking to this small island, confident it had the potential to become a 5A-level scenic area, planning to start fresh.

Zhang Shutong had heard about the resort and shopping plaza being built on the island, likely his father’s doing.

Even on campus, Gu’s father’s presence was evident:

If one went to the administration building’s long corridor, the most conspicuous feature was a huge framed photo honoring him as an “outstanding alumnus.”

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Though Gu’s father had never set foot in the school, since the only rubberized playground was donated by him, it was justified.

If one went to the library—ordinarily a school of this size wouldn’t have one—beside the grand entrance hung gilded letters: “Sincere thanks to Mr. Gu Jianhong for his donation.”

The library was thus named the “Jianhong Hall.”

If the school had more students, there might even be a “Jianhong Building.”

Because his beloved daughter studied here, he probably didn’t want to flaunt too much. Unfortunately, there was no “Jianhong statue” at the school gate.

As for meeting Gu Qiumian herself, it was on her first day transferring.

That day, Zhang Shutong rode his newly bought bicycle through a crowd of walking students and saw a black sedan blocking the school gate.

The car door opened, two round-tipped leather boots appeared, and a girl stepped out, wearing a red and black plaid skirt, arrogantly tossing her hair, with dangling pendants bouncing at the ends.

As a child, he didn’t know much about cars, only that the car’s paint looked very high-end. He still didn’t know much now—past experiences had made him give up on getting a driver’s license—but he at least recognized the four rings as Audi.

He followed Gu Qiumian into the same classroom.

The girl first swept a scrutinizing glance over the classmates and asked him who the class monitor was.

He calmly replied that he didn’t know. She probably thought he was disrespectful, paused while reaching into her bag, and shot him a sharp look from her bright eyes.

Only then did Zhang Shutong learn they were both transfer students, arriving on the same day.

That day, the young lady brought a whole backpack of chocolates, intending to win over the “Pokémon.”

Indeed, in her eyes, the whole class were Pokémon.

The chocolates were handed out, but the effect was poor. In the end, she couldn’t integrate into any clique and was left with a bruised nose.

Thus began Gu Qiumian’s new school life, clearly unwilling.

Zhang Shutong missed only the McDonald’s in the city; the young lady never got along well with her Pokémon friends.

At first, no one really excluded her. The island’s students had never seen such a proud girl; some were timid, some insecure, unsure how to interact.

But soon, things changed:

One day, a few girls mustered courage and brought her a bag of gold coin chocolates to share.

She glanced at it, said “Oh,” and coldly refused, saying it was made with vegetable fat and tasted terrible. She never ate those but could bring them some good ones if they wanted.

The atmosphere froze; the girls were mortified, their pride shattered—not only because they were rejected but because they didn’t understand what “vegetable fat” meant.

To girls that age, if craving sweets, gold coin chocolates were the most cost-effective choice, easily bought for a dozen yuan at small supermarkets.

That was about their monthly pocket money.

They thought the young lady was just looking down on small-town folks, but the next day, Gu Qiumian really brought a bag of Godiva chocolates—a Belgian brand Zhang Shutong didn’t know then but had bought once for a senior in high school, costing hundreds of yuan, painfully expensive.

Just as the island kids were used to vegetable fat chocolates, Gu, probably thinking it silly to carry a gift box to school, had put the hundreds-yuan chocolates in a white plastic bag.

She smiled nonchalantly, as if yesterday’s awkwardness never happened, saying:

“Everyone, try these, they’re delicious. My dad often buys them for me.”

But no one accepted them, treating her as air. Her outstretched hand froze in mid-air.

Looking back, perhaps she was spoiled and didn’t know how to get along with others, but more than that, just awkward.

Things didn’t end there:

The young lady couldn’t stand the humiliation. One day after school, when Zhang Shutong was on duty, about to finish, a girl suddenly rushed in through the front door, startling him.

Her eyes were red, fists clenched. She came up to him, threw a white plastic bag in front of him, and asked if he wanted chocolate.

He hesitated—it wasn’t really asking if he wanted to eat.

She was one of the lead girls among those feuding with Gu Qiumian, named Feng Ruoping, part of their clique.

Zhang Shutong was never a shallow person, and since Ruoping had just lost her temper in front of them the night before, he paused for a few seconds and firmly refused.

The entire bag of chocolates was thrown into the trash. Gu Qiumian left without looking back.

Zhang Shutong naturally didn’t steal them home to eat, but still felt it a pity to waste. The matter ended up in the homeroom teacher’s hands.

After this, they were completely estranged—unilaterally so.

Perhaps in Gu Qiumian’s eyes, “traitor” was worse than “enemy.”

Zhang Shutong never understood why he was seen as a traitor or why she thought they were on the same side.

Maybe because they both transferred from the city?

Come to think of it, she did talk to him a bit more than others.

But back then, he was completely oblivious. Rather than dull, he was simply not focused on such matters.

His favorite after-school activity was fishing; his favorite in-class activity was thinking about how to catch a bigger fish.

This led to others describing his childhood self as somewhat aloof—he had some social interactions, like chatting with Dukang a few hours ago—but the image others had often surprised him.

Aloof? Was he?

During student days, except for the two worst years, he didn’t recall ever giving anyone the cold shoulder. Sometimes, he just wasn’t interested in the topic and chose to stay silent.

So that was that. At the time, he didn’t think he was aloof, and being called a traitor by Gu Qiumian didn’t bother him, nor did he bother to hold a grudge.

Later, they had a more serious conflict, the exact cause forgotten, but it angered him enough that they never spoke again.

By the time he calmed down,

She was killed.

In the end, Gu Qiumian never made decent friends.

Zhang Shutong was feeling somewhat wistful when a bespectacled girl approached the podium.

She cleared her throat:

“Don’t forget to change seats during break. Those who haven’t cleaned up, hurry up.”