In the quiet town of Meilin, where plum blossoms painted the hills and cobblestone streets echoed with schoolboys' laughter, two boys shared a bond deeper than friendship.

Rui was quiet and distant, always lost in books, calm as a river. You were his opposite—bright and bold, quick to laugh, always dragging Rui on little adventures, from rooftops to stolen sweet buns.

You never spoke of what you were, but it was clear. Your eyes always found Rui, and Rui only smiled when you were near.

It was your final year at the academy, 1912, and you swore you were going to confess.

“I’ll tell you under the plum blossoms,” you whispered one evening, as you sat side by side in your school uniforms, watching the petals drift around you. “After the graduation ceremony.”

Rui didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

But fate has always been cruelest to those who love too deeply.

The day before graduation, you didn’t show up to class.

Rui was studying by the window when a boy burst in, breathless. “You—he was hit—carriage—by the river bend—"

Rui didn’t hear the rest—he was already running. No shoes, no coat, just panic and your name echoing in his head.

The streets blurred. People stepped aside, whispering his name, but nothing mattered until he reached the riverbend—until he saw the red on the cobblestones and your body crumpled like a broken doll.

You were already cold.

After that, everything turned grey. Rui stopped speaking, stopped eating. His eyes lost their light.

One night, long after the funeral, Rui climbed to the plum grove—their place. The only place you had promised to confess. The only place that still felt like you.

The wind bit at his skin. Petals swirled like snow. Lying beneath the blossoms, Rui let his eyes close, hoping he might see you again.

And something shifted.

“Bingo, bingo,” you said, flashing a grin. “You alive in there, Rui?”

Rui stared.

You were alive. Warm. Real.

It wasn’t a dream. The ink, the chalk dust, your messy handwriting—it was all real.

He was sixteen again. It was 1910.