It turned out his name was "Victor Vane," born in 1898. His era was 1922.
"Victor"—meaning conqueror, one who triumphs. But paired with the surname Vane, it suggested a victor who shifts with the wind, which rather defeated the purpose of such a fine name.
I hesitated before giving in to curiosity and searching for him online. Scattered records appeared.
He was actually a minor warlord—no wonder he carried himself with such distinction.
Scrolling further:
"Defeated. Killed by explosion."
"Body not recovered intact."
"1924."
These keywords hit me like a bucket of cold water, making me shudder.
I frantically closed the browser.
I looked back at the unconscious man and chanted apology after apology.
I shouldn't have peeked at someone's ending...
I commanded myself to forget everything I'd just seen, but the harder I tried, the more those verdicts on his life and death seemed branded onto my brain cells, impossible to shake.
He would be defeated and blown to pieces in just two years.
The only variable was that he had now acquired the ability to resurrect.
But could history be so easily changed?
I couldn't figure it out, so I stopped trying.
The washing machine signaled the clothes were done. Unable to sleep anyway, I took out the iron and meticulously pressed his trousers and jacket from top to bottom.
Looking at the six bullet holes in the fabric, my back throbbed in sympathy.
So I found my long-neglected sewing kit and stitched six awkward circles over the holes with matching thread.
As dawn crept in, I rushed to the freezer for the only two frozen chicken legs and barely managed to simmer a small pot of chicken soup.
After bustling about like a dutiful wife for half the night, the aroma of chicken soup finally filled the apartment, and I felt I could breathe properly again.
I turned to see the man I had stripped bare now awake, picking up his freshly ironed clothes, fully dressed and ready to depart.
3.
"You've barely recovered—where are you going?"
I chased after him, catching his hand.
He seemed to remember something, turned back, and removed the watch from his wrist.
"Sorry about your bedsheet."
He placed the warm watch in my palm. "This should be worth something in your time."
I looked at the heavy men's watch with its custom steel engraving—clearly very valuable.
Then I looked at him, his handsome face drawn, thin lips pale.
His body had healed in this dimension, but six shots to the back—clearly fired by someone he trusted.
That kind of betrayal had to hurt worse than the bullet wounds.
My heart twinged, unsure how to make him stay.
So I pocketed the watch first, then dragged him back to the table, grinning.
"We're family now, no need to be formal. I've made chicken soup with dumplings—eat before you go."
Seeing him still standing, eyes on the door, I shook his arm playfully.
"If you don't eat, I'll report you for illegal possession of a firearm. You should know, police in this century are very capable—not like in your Republican era."
He finally looked at me properly, a weak smile touching his lips. "Miss Rose, you people a century later are quite persistent."
My heart skipped a beat. He called me "Miss Rose."
The first time my name had ever sounded so beautiful.
I brought out the food. "The chicken soup is made from frozen drumsticks, and the dumplings are half a bag of frozen ones. Under the circumstances, please excuse the simplicity."
I set his chopsticks down and sat across from him, propping my chin on my hand, thinking of ways to convince him to stay.
He looked down and saw only one set of utensils. "You're...not eating?"
"You eat, you eat. I'm on a diet."
"A diet?" He seemed not to understand the concept, rising and going to the kitchen to find a bowl and chopsticks from the drying rack before returning to his seat.
"Last time, I apologize for taking your breakfast."
He divided the food in half and pushed my portion toward me.
"Before, I contracted cholera. The treatment wasn't timely—the doctor said I wouldn't make it. When I lost consciousness, I followed a ray of light and came here. I recovered in a short while, felt incredibly hungry, so I took your breakfast."
He ate with his head slightly bowed, slightly embarrassed but still maintaining excellent table manners even in such extraordinary circumstances.
Cholera, gunshot wounds...
I grabbed his hand and said what I'd been holding in:
"Then don't leave, okay?"
Out of all the homes in the world, he had to resurrect in mine.
I thought perhaps heaven had given me this opportunity—He wanted me to save this man.
Subtlety wasn't my strong suit. I went straight for it.
To eliminate his concerns, I promised: "I'll take good care of you!"
If I were him—a man from a war-torn era suddenly in peacetime—even a fool would know how to choose this once-in-a-lifetime chance.
He ate his portion in silence.
Then looked toward the door.
I looked too. Nothing unusual.
But when I turned back, in his pupils I saw a white, glowing door.
"You can see something I can't?"
He withdrew his gaze. In those beautiful eyes, dusk seemed to gather. He said quietly: "Your door has been glowing white for half an hour now—it's hard not to notice."
"Then don't look!"
I quickly covered his eyes.
He grasped my hand and moved it away. For the first time, he smiled at me.
Unlike his mysterious, dangerous persona, his smile was gentle.
"I know there's peace a century from now. That's enough. I don't belong here. I have my own destiny."
Dawn had fully broken. I couldn't keep him. He opened the door that glowed only in his vision—a door that looked to me like nothing more than an ordinary burgundy security door.
A different world appeared beyond it.
He glanced back at me, backlit, his expression unreadable.
"Miss Rose, thank you..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he walked back to my side, cradled the back of my head, and pressed a brief kiss to my lips.
Just as I'd imagined—a jolt that sealed my soul.
"I'm sorry—there's no telling which meeting might be the last...farewell."
I heard my own heart hammering so fast it might burst. I saw my face reflected in his deep, dark eyes, like a stone dropped into a still pool.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped through and pulled the door shut.
I stood frozen for a long time before finding my senses.
I walked to the door, pressed the handle, and opened it.
Only the familiar hallway greeted me.
4.
That kiss stole my soul.
For two days, the apartment held only my pacing and my solitude.
On the third day, Ivy video-called me.
"You're spacing out one moment, then looking love-struck the next—still obsessing over your imaginary husband?"
I said nothing, which was as good as admitting it.
Then I thought of him, wherever he was, whatever he was going through, and my shoulders dropped.
She saw my melancholy and said seriously: "Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"
I sighed. "You wouldn't understand."
I missed him, yet feared him being hurt.
I hoped he was staying well.
"Yeah, yeah, I wouldn't understand."
Ivy was still talking, but I'd already stopped listening.
My fingertip scrolled across my tablet, searching through wartime history a century ago.
His father had risen to power in Chesterfield, then established himself in Sungate.
When his father grew old, and he went north to fight the Jiangsu warlord, another army attacked from Fujian toward Chesterfield.
His forces were sandwiched north and south, ultimately defeated.
In history, it occupied barely a short passage.
Why, even after resurrecting twice, hadn't his ending changed?
I moped for two more days, unable to summon energy for anything.
My mind was full of the image of him, gravely wounded, near death.
On TV played a Republican-era romance.
Gorgeous gowns, domineering warlords, tender scenes—none of it entered my mind. But when the camera panned past the bomber for mere seconds, I felt it in my bones.
I froze the frame on the falling bomb.
Even though he could return to this timeline to heal, the physical pain was real. The memories never faded, layering deeper each time, and there had to be an end.
That would be the last time we ever saw each other.
I slumped on the sofa, zoning out until I fell asleep. Then, in the middle of the night, I heard water running in the bathroom.
I got up, walked to the bathroom door, and saw a bloody handprint on the handle.
Fear and relief tangled inside me.
He had always had excellent hearing. Through the water, he heard my footsteps and called out before I could open the door.
"Sorry, I'm a bit of a mess right now. Let me rinse off first."
My hand trembled as I asked through the door: "Where are you hurt?"
"It's nothing—just a knife wound."