Reborn a day later, I emptied my enemy's possessions beforehand.

Zhou Haiqing frowned very seriously and said:

"You don't have a fever. Why are you acting so strangely today, brother? Didn't you bring back the pork and potatoes?"

"I brought it back?" Zhou Haibing was stunned.

He definitely doesn't have that memory.

He remembered many things from his youth in his previous life, but not everything was clear in his memory, since it was more than forty years ago.

Seeing his blank expression, Zhou Haiqing stamped her foot in frustration:

"Didn't you go to town to treat someone today? You forgot? It was that old Zhou from Wangjiazhuang, the sores on his leg have been festering for ages."

You examined him, prescribed some medicine, and applied the ointment you prepared.

His leg is much better, and he's so happy that he gave you a pound of pork and five pounds of potatoes.

When you came back, you were carrying that bag, and I even helped you carry it halfway back.

Brother, how could you forget all of this?

As soon as she finished speaking, a flood of memories rushed into Zhou Haibing's mind.

It was as if someone had turned on a tap in his mind, and the images and sounds were gushing out—

In the early morning mist, he walked along the village road toward the town, carrying an old medicine box on his back. The medicine box was left by his grandfather, and the wood had been worn smooth and shiny.

In the low mud-brick house in Wangjiazhuang, Old Zhou lifted his trouser leg to show him the sores on his leg. The sores were black and smelly, and the area around them was swollen.

He squatted down to clean Old Zhou's sores, wiping them little by little with an alcohol swab. Old Zhou winced in pain, but didn't utter a sound of pain.

He prepared medicine for Old Zhou and left a small jar of his own concoction, instructing him to change it once a day.

Old Zhou's son brought out a string of pork and a bag of potatoes from the kitchen, and forced them into his hands, saying, "Dr. Zhou, please take them, don't refuse. This is all the good stuff we have at home, please don't think it's too little."

These memories flooded in quickly, but the images were very clear; he even remembered the tone of Old Zhou's voice when he said those words.

Zhou Haibing's forehead began to sweat, his temples throbbed, and he groaned in pain, reaching out to cover his forehead.

Those memories weren't something he actively recalled; they came flooding in all at once, without warning, like a bucket of cold water poured over his head, giving him a jolt.

Zhou Haiqing noticed his unusual behavior and quickly came over, holding his arms with both hands, her voice urgent and soft:

"Big brother? Big brother, what's wrong? Why are you sweating? Does your head hurt? Do you want to lie down and sleep a little longer?"

Zhou Haibing waved his hand, took a few breaths, and waited for the headache to subside.

The torrent of memories finally stopped, and his mind felt as if it had been completely reorganized.

Those everyday moments that belonged to Zhou Haibing when he was eighteen, moments he had already forgotten, are now all lying quietly in his mind.

He knew where he had gone, what he had done, who he had met, and what he had said that day.

He learned where the pound of pork and the five pounds of potatoes came from.

He learned that he was now a barefoot doctor who went from village to village, using a skill passed down from his grandfather. People from all around would come to him for a headache or fever.

Zhou Haibing lowered his hand from his forehead, forced a smile at his sister, and pulled the corners of his mouth upwards:

"It's nothing, just a bit of a headache, but I'm fine now. I guess I haven't recovered from fainting yet."

Zhou Haiqing looked at him with some skepticism, his eyes scanning his face several times before finally nodding and adding another instruction:

"If you're still not feeling well, just tell me and I'll get you a bowl of hot water."

"Okay, let's go eat."

The two people left the room.

Outside the room was a short earthen corridor with a hard, compacted yellow mud floor that felt rough and gritty underfoot.

At the end of the corridor was the main room. Zhou Haibing looked up and saw a square table placed in the center of the main room.

The tabletop is made of dark brown old wood with rounded edges. Several rough porcelain bowls and a few pairs of wooden chopsticks are placed on the table.

Two people were already sitting in the main room.

Zhou Fuxiang sat in the main seat, wearing a patched gray cloth jacket, his hair cut very short and already gray earlier than he remembered.

In his early forties, half of his temples had already turned white.

His face was a dark reddish-brown, the color of someone who worked under the sun for years. He had a high nose, thin lips, and a ring of bluish-black stubble on his chin.

Zhou Hailong sat to Zhou Fuxiang's right, his neck hunched, looking like a starving mouse, his hands already clutching chopsticks.

The bowl in front of him was piled high with several glistening pieces of pork, his mouth was stuffed full, and his cheeks were bulging as if he were holding two walnuts in his mouth.

Oil dripped down the corners of his mouth, but he didn't wipe it away, just kept chewing, his mouth glistening with oil.

Zhou Fuxiang was using chopsticks to put a piece of meat into Zhou Hailong's bowl, muttering to himself:

"Hailong, eat more. You're growing, so you need to eat more meat."

He didn't even lift his head when he spoke, and didn't even glance at Zhou Haibing and Zhou Haiqing out of the corner of his eye.

Zhou Haiqing stood behind Zhou Haibing, his steps pausing slightly.

She looked at the plate of stir-fried potatoes and pork on the table—actually, there wasn't much pork; it was mostly potatoes.

But the oily, fragrant smell wafted through the air, and she couldn't help but swallow, her throat bobbing up and down, making a very soft gurgling sound.

Zhou Haibing led her to the square table.

Several cornbreads were already laid out on the table. They were dark and made of coarse grains. They were hard and could be used as stones to hit someone.

The plate of stir-fried potatoes and pork was placed in the center of the table. The pork slices were thinly cut and mixed with the potato slices, glistening with oil, making one's mouth water.

However, Zhou Hailong had already scooped out most of the meat from the plate, leaving only some scraps of meat and potato slices.

Only then did Zhou Fuxiang raise his head, glance at Zhou Haibing, his gaze lingering on his face for a moment, his voice indifferent, as if asking a trivial matter:

"Hai Bing, are you alright?"

Zhou Haibing replied casually, "I'm fine."

He pulled out a bench and sat down, then tugged at Zhou Haiqing next to him, asking her to sit beside him.

Zhou Haiqing sat down carefully, trying not to make a sound. He gripped his chopsticks tightly and stared at the plate of stir-fried potatoes and meat on the table, but dared not take any of it.

Zhou Haibing glanced at his father, then at Zhou Hailong, who was engrossed in eating, and a familiar yet unfamiliar emotion welled up inside him.

It felt familiar because he had witnessed such biased scenes countless times throughout his life; it felt strange because he was no longer the submissive Zhou Haibing he once was.

His chest held over forty years of memories, over forty years of resentment, over forty years of disappointment with his father, and over forty years of heartache for his sister.