Rain drizzled softly over the sleeping city, its neon lights painting the wet streets in flickering hues of blue and crimson. It was dawn, but the sun barely pierced through the thick, polluted sky. The year was 2086—a world of flying vehicles, towering glass spires, and sentient machines. Technology had advanced far beyond human pace, and for some, like Genghis, it had left them behind.
He stood alone atop a massive skyscraper, the wind tugging at his coat, the city buzzing beneath him with distant wail of police sirens and the hum of traffic. Genghis had once believed he could adapt, that he could belong. But time had proven otherwise. One by one, his coworkers surpassed him. He lost his job. Then came the rejections—dozens of them. Eventually, even his family walked away, tired of waiting for him to catch up to a world that no longer waited.
Clutching his nearly broken vintage watch—a relic from a time he cherished—he glanced at the cracked face: 4:17 a.m.
He sighed.
As he turned his head, a billboard flickered nearby, displaying the year in bold digital letters: 2086. Beneath it, sleek flying vehicles zipped by in effortless synchronization. Genghis's own car, parked far below, was a grounded, rusting memory of another era.
He stepped toward the edge of the rooftop, the abyss yawning beneath his feet. A memory surfaced, uninvited but vivid. His mother's voice, warm and full of hope:
"Genghis, consider yourself a lucky person. Always."
A faint smile touched his lips—worn, bitter, and wistful.
"Sorry, Mother," he whispered, "I couldn't."
And then, he let go.
But when Genghis opened his eyes, there was no impact, no pain. Only silence.
He found himself standing in an endless, dark void—no sky, no ground, just a boundless emptiness that somehow held him upright. The air was still. Cold. There was no sound, no direction. Just nothingness.
Disoriented, he began to walk. Each step echoed faintly in the void, though there was nothing to echo off of. He moved without purpose, without understanding, until suddenly—a figure.
A woman stood ahead, illuminated by a faint, ethereal glow. Genghis froze. His breath caught.
It was her.
His mother.
The stoicism in his face shattered in an instant. His lips trembled. Tears surged to the edge of his eyes, threatening to fall. A thousand thoughts flooded his mind—questions, guilt, longing. He felt everything at once: panic, relief, grief. His heart grew unbearably heavy, as though the years of silent suffering had finally found a voice.
Since childhood, life had given him little but rejection. He had never known his father, not even through stories. His mother had been everything. When money ran dry, she sold her own blood. When that wasn't enough, she sold an eye. Then a kidney. She refused medicine just to afford food for Genghis, hoping that someday—somehow—he would succeed, that he would rise above the world that had spit them out. That one day, he could afford to bring her to a doctor, to heal what she had sacrificed.
But fate was unkind.
He remembered it vividly—coming home from yet another failed job interview, shoulders slumped, hope dimmed. Then, the sight: his mother collapsed on the floor. He rushed to her, his voice cracking as he screamed, "Mo–Mo–Mother!"
She turned her weakened face to him, eyes filled with both pain and serenity.
"Genghis…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "No matter what… don't pity yourself. Always consider yourself… a lucky person… on this Earth."
And then, she was gone.
That moment broke him.
His world had collapsed inward. Time froze. Logic vanished. And the only thing he could do was cry.
Now, standing in this strange place between life and death, the memory came flooding back with unbearable clarity. The tears finally escaped him. He ran—toward her—desperate to hold her, to say everything he never could. But just as he reached out, her figure began to fade, dissolving into the darkness like a dream.
"No… please…" he whispered.
But she was gone.
And Genghis stopped running.
As Genghis stood motionless in the dark, the silence pressing in from all sides, another memory returned—one softer, deeper. A voice that once guided his childhood like a fragile lantern in the dark.
"Consider yourself lucky," his mother used to say, her tone gentle but firm, "because you're living a life where you can do almost anything. Crying, laughing, sadness, joy, anger—they're all parts of being alive. There are countless souls out there who crave even a single heartbeat more… but they can't. And then there are people who waste their lives criticizing every moment they're given. They forget to be thankful. They forget that every second—even the painful ones—is valuable."
Her words echoed through his mind like a sacred chant.
"So as long as you live… just stay happy."
And then, everything shifted.
The ground beneath his feet vanished.
Genghis gasped as he plummeted into a bottomless void, wind howling past his ears, his limbs flailing in the empty air. A cold rush of terror surged through him, but something deeper stirred too—realization.
Maybe... maybe it isn't over yet. Maybe I still have a chance to fix everything.
Hope flickered in his heart for the first time in years.
But it was short-lived.
He hit the ground.
Hard.
The world went black.
And then—light.
Warm, soft, and blinding.
Somewhere, far from the void, a cry pierced the air.
A newborn had just entered the world.
Tiny lungs gasped for breath. Eyes, wide and filled with ancient awareness, blinked open for the first time. But something was different. This child—this soul—had memories buried deep within. Flashes of sorrow, voices from another life, a fall through darkness, a mother's fading whisper.
Everything had changed.
Hovering above were two unfamiliar faces, hazy at first, then slowly sharpening into focus.
A man leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with pride and emotion. "Look," he said, almost in awe. "He just opened his eyes."
A woman beside him gasped softly, her voice tender and bright. "Yes… he's so cute."
The man chuckled, his chest swelling with warmth. "See whose son he is? If he wasn't cute, then who would be?"
The woman rolled her eyes playfully, nudging him with her elbow. "Oh please," she said with a teasing smirk.
They both burst into laughter, their voices filling the room with life, with love.
The newborn blinked slowly, his tiny face scrunched in quiet confusion as he gazed at the two unfamiliar figures hovering above him.
These two...
I don't know who they are... or what's happening here…
But… why do they feel so familiar?
He couldn't explain it. Something deep within him stirred—a connection beyond understanding, like a forgotten dream trying to resurface.
Then, like a spark, a thought struck him.
Could it be? Are they… my parents?
And… is this really happening? Have I… been born again?
Is this… my second chance?
As if the universe heard his thoughts, the woman smiled gently, her eyes shining with warmth. She turned to the man beside her and asked softly, "What shall we call him?"
The man, still grinning with pride, leaned forward and said, "From now on… his name will be Zhang Lei."
And in that moment, though his tiny mouth couldn't yet speak and his body couldn't yet move freely, something inside the child settled.
Zhang Lei.
A new name. A new life.
A second beginning.