The charming widow of the Marquis's mansion: The stable boy carries the flag and raises the dra

The scene before him suddenly brightened, so bright that Wang Long instinctively squinted.

Neon signs flashed overhead, their colors so intense they were almost blinding. The air was thick with the smells of car exhaust, the fumes of fried food, and the sweltering heat rising from the damp asphalt.

He looked down at his hands; his fingers were distinct, his palms were rough, and there was a bit of oil stain that he couldn't wash off under his fingernails. On his wrist hung a worn-out digital watch.

He was standing on the edge of a sidewalk, with a row of drab shops behind him and a busy road in front of him, the red light countdown ticking away.

He was stunned.

Isn't this the city he lived in before he traveled through time?

That road he traveled countless times every day, that intersection where he waited for countless red lights while delivering food, that convenience store on the corner that was always lit up, and that sycamore tree at the bend that was trimmed a little crooked.

Every detail was so realistic it was unbelievable; even the stray cat rummaging for food next to the roadside trash can was exactly the same as I remembered.

Wang Long subconsciously took half a step back, bumping his back into a pedestrian's shoulder. The person muttered, "Can't you watch where you're going?" and walked away without looking back.

The sound was rough yet real, carrying the unique hustle and bustle of the city.

His heart suddenly started beating very fast, as if it was about to jump out of his chest.

Wang Long looked down at his hands again, those rough, knuckle-distinct hands were the hands he had used to work as a food delivery driver for more than ten years.

He looked down at his faded blue work jacket, the logo of the food delivery platform still printed on the chest, and a dried oil stain on the hem.

Wang Long suddenly raised his hand and touched his face. It felt smooth, without any beard, and his skin was taut. His tired face, which was over forty years old, was exposed without any concealment.

He opened his mouth and let out a very soft murmur.

"So...it was all just a dream?"

Are all these so-called time travel stories fake?

I did not time travel, nor did I rise to power, nor did I have that many female confidantes.

He stood there, stunned, watching the traffic flow in front of him. The neon signs were reflected on the wet asphalt, shattering into a blurry patch of light.

He tried hard to recall the details of that world, the golden morning light of the Primordial Holy Palace, Luo Hanyi's slightly protruding belly, the soft touch of Qin Jiaojiao when she threw herself into his arms with her ponytail, and the smile in Ye Niannu's peach blossom eyes when she leaned on his shoulder.

But those memories now seem veiled by a thin mist; he remembers they existed, but he can't grasp any complete picture of them.

"Hey, what are you spacing out for!"

A rude urging came from behind him, and a food delivery driver on an electric scooter sped past him, leaving behind a curse.

Wang Long suddenly snapped out of his daze, instinctively moved aside, and then his phone started vibrating.

He had heard the urgent notification tone thousands of times.

Wang Long took out his phone, and a series of delivery notifications popped up on the screen. The pickup address was a restaurant two kilometers away, and the delivery address was a residential building on another street. The delivery deadline countdown had already jumped to the bright red "5 minutes left".

His finger hovered over the screen for a moment, then, as if by muscle memory, he clicked "Confirm Order".

Wang Long turned and walked toward where the electric scooter was parked, each step feeling as familiar as stepping into a well-worn ditch.

He knows every pothole and bump on the road, which intersections have the shortest green lights, which office building has the slowest elevator, and which security guards are the most unkind.

His body returned to that routine of daily life even before he did.

It felt like his soul had been stuffed back into an ill-fitting old garment, every stitch reminding him of its contents.

You never left here; it was all a lie.

The days that followed felt like a switch had been flipped on repeat.

I leave home before dawn every day and don't finish work until late at night. My phone is always vibrating, orders are always coming in, and there's never enough time.

He rode his electric bike through the city's streets and alleys. The wind slipped into his collar, bringing a chill, the sun made his arms scorching, and the rain soaked his trousers, sticking cold and heavy to his ankles.

Wang Long saw himself walking through street after street, through blurry evening after evening, the city's outline constantly deforming and reorganizing as it receded, like a piece of paper that had been repeatedly crumpled and then flattened.

Once, he climbed six floors to deliver an order. It was an old-style residential building without an elevator. The lights in the stairwell were broken, and the steps were narrow and steep.

When he knocked on the door, panting, the person on the other end frowned, took the takeout, said "It's all cold," and slammed the door shut.

He stood outside the door, looking at the tightly closed security door, and remained silent for a long time. When he turned around and walked downstairs, his knees ached more than when he went upstairs.

Another time, he was grazed by a turning car at an intersection. His electric scooter overturned and the delivery box fell open, spilling soup and other liquids all over the ground.

The driver rolled down his window, yelled "How do you ride a bike?", and then sped away.

He squatted down and picked up the scattered tableware one by one. He cut his finger on a broken bowl, and only realized the pain when blood seeped out.

He was late and had to pay compensation, received a bad review and had his performance bonus deducted, so his income for the day was almost zero.

He squatted by the roadside, rinsed his wound with bottled water, wrapped it haphazardly with a band-aid, and then got on his electric scooter to continue taking orders.

During that time, he kept hearing a voice echoing in his mind.

The voice was initially very soft, as if the speaker was talking to itself, but it gradually became clearer, carrying an undeniable certainty.

"Isn't that exactly what you're like?"

"He spent his entire life struggling at the bottom, achieving nothing, and never amounting to anything."

"Do you remember how many times you were bullied in the bathroom by classmates when you were a child? Do you remember how long your mother sat in the living room crying when your dad slammed the door and left? Do you remember the expression on your boss's face when you resigned?"

"You remember everything; you've never changed anything!"

Wang Long rode his electric bike in silence, the evening breeze blowing in his face, carrying the smoky aroma of roadside barbecue stalls.

He didn't refute the voice, because every word of those words brought to mind a corresponding scene.

He did experience those things, he did have those cracks and gaps, and he did question himself repeatedly in the dead of night whether he was a "useful person".

"You're a piece of trash!"

The voice repeated itself, this time clearer than before, carrying a certain, almost intimate malice.

"You can never change anything. You can't even control your own life, so how can you control anything else?"

You never deserve it.