The doctor hadn't visited the Zhou family's old house for a while and almost forgot that Zhou Zhengchu was a mama's boy, the kind who wouldn't be happy to say a bad word about his mother.
But the doctor felt that what he had just said was not inappropriate; if it had been someone else, he could have said something even harsher.
Who would give a patient half a bottle of fever reducer at once? They might not die from the illness, but they could all be poisoned.
But thinking about it, it's not surprising that Mrs. Zhou, who is not very clear-headed and has always disliked her child, would do something like this.
No matter how much the doctor wanted to say, he dared not continue at this moment.
To avoid upsetting the employer.
He shut his mouth, the needle was removed, and his fever had subsided considerably, so he no longer needed to continue the IV drip.
After the doctor left, the bedroom became quiet again.
Zhou Zhengchu got out of bed. He had been in a coma for nearly two days and was exhausted. His head felt dizzy and his limbs were weak.
He went to the bathroom and looked at his own face in the mirror.
He pinched his palm; he could feel it, it still hurt. Would he feel pain in a dream? Probably not.
Then this is not a dream.
Zhou Zhengchu remained calm and composed in the face of adversity, adhering to the principle of "what's done is done." He then thought of his mother, who had been acting strangely while he was in a coma.
In this world, except for himself.
Everyone else seems a little different; they've changed, yet they haven't changed much.
Zhou Zhengchu washed his face, barely managing to wake up, and then carefully looked around the bedroom.
Neat and clean, yet spacious.
There are fewer photos and fewer decorative items.
Zhou Zhengchu still had no strength left. Suddenly there was a commotion outside the balcony. He slowly walked to the window. His mother seemed to want to go out, but was persuaded to stay by the housekeeper.
She looked a little dejected and didn't say anything.
Zhou Zhengchu originally wanted to go downstairs, but he didn't have the strength to even reach the door. His high fever, which had been recurring, had returned.
He didn't remember when he fainted.
The sounds around me grew more and more distant, and that somewhat childish voice now sounded a little angry.
"Didn't you say he was awake? Why is he still sleeping?"
"I'm so angry! Is he pretending to be asleep?!"
"Fine, fine, I'm ignoring him! I don't even want to see him."
"You jerk."
The sound faded into the distance until it could no longer be heard.
He suddenly opened his eyes and found himself lying in bed, covered in cold sweat. He slowly sat up and looked at the familiar layout of the bedroom, as if it had all been a dream.
The high fever seems to have subsided.
The forehead temperature wasn't that high.
They regained their mental and physical strength.
He got out of bed. The desk lamp in front of his desk was shining with a warm yellow light. As if sensing something, he slowly walked to the desk.
The dusty poetry collection was taken out of the bookshelf at some point.
The unfolded pages were already somewhat yellowed.
The pen that had fallen onto the paper hadn't been closed yet.
Zhou Zhengchu walked over step by step, lowering his eyes, his gaze lingering on a few familiar yet unfamiliar words beside the poetry collection—
Love her well.
His handwriting was exactly the same.
He seemed to have already guessed who wrote it.
These words seem to have met briefly across a vast expanse of time and space.
Suddenly, there was a few knocking sounds at the door. Zhou Zhengchu calmly closed the poetry collection.
Jiang Yue pushed open the door from the outside and glanced at her son, who was still wearing his pajamas: "Why did you sleep in today?"
Before he could answer, she said this.
She smiled again: "You've been acting a little strange these past few days."
Zhou Zhengchu calmly explained, "It's probably because I'm feeling a little unwell."
Jiang Yue found it even funnier when he explained it in such a serious manner.
She was just joking.
She smiled, her eyes crinkling: "Why are you still the same as when you were a child? You take everything so seriously."
Zhou Zhengchu breathed a sigh of relief, not wanting his mother to know this brief secret.
"Alright, let's go downstairs for dinner."
"Um."
A gentle spring breeze blew in through the slightly ajar window.
The spring breeze stirred the closed pages of the book, stopping precisely on the page where the black ink had left its mark.
The four characters left behind in the gap of time and space.
Sometime later, a few words quietly appeared.
—【I will.】
--【The same to you. 】
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