As the first rays of dawn slipped into the spotless white room, the blond-haired boy lying on the white bed—covered by a white blanket, a bandage wrapped around his forehead—stirred almost imperceptibly. The middle-aged woman dozing beside him, propped against the bedside rail, instantly noticed the faint flicker in his eyes.

"Xiao Bu! Xiao Bu, are you awake?"

Her voice brimmed with anxious joy, all traces of overnight exhaustion vanished.

"Huh? Why am I in the hospital?"

Propping himself up, the boy blinked rapidly, curiously scanning the sterile surroundings. He remembered dozing off at his office desk after another grueling overtime shift. How had he woken up here, surrounded by the sharp scent of disinfectant?

'So I finally collapsed? This damn company works us to the bone—who could possibly endure it!'

Still oblivious, he grumbled inwardly, already planning a few guilt-free sick days. He had no idea how strangely his behavior struck the woman beside him.

The woman stared at the face she knew so well. His first words made no sense; his actions felt alien. Panic flickered across her features. She jabbed the nurse call button, paced two steps, then rushed out.

"Xiao Bu, wait—I’ll get the doctor!" she called over her shoulder.

The moment she left, a sharp pain exploded in his skull. Clutching his head, he shot upright, veins throbbing at his temples. A torrent of foreign memories surged through his mind—but the overload lasted only seconds. The human brain, after all, could absorb another lifetime’s worth of memories like a drop in the ocean.

Sorting through the fragments, he pieced it together: Zhang Chufan, a 27-year-old Chinese programmer, had somehow transmigrated into the body of Ayumu Genno, a 17-year-old Japanese high schooler.

The woman was Eina Genno—Ayumu’s single mother. His father had died from overwork long before Ayumu could remember.

Their earlier miscommunication? Simple: he’d spoken Mandarin upon waking; she’d replied in Japanese. Now, fused with both lifetimes of memory, Ayumu commanded both languages effortlessly.

Just as he marveled at this unexpected advantage, Eina’s voice returned from the doorway:

"Doctor, please check my son! When he woke, he seemed not to recognize me—is it amnesia?"

Ayumu now understood Japanese as naturally as his own breath. *Like* wasn’t even the right word—it *was* his native tongue.

"Mom, I’m fine," Ayumu said softly in flawless Japanese.

Relief washed over Eina’s face. No amnesia. Her boy was still here.

The doctor asked routine questions—"Does your head hurt?" "Don’t remove the bandage yet." "Keep the wound dry."—and Eina listened with meticulous care. Watching her, Ayumu felt a pang. With over forty years of combined memory, he knew single motherhood was brutal—whether in China or Japan. Ayumu’s past memories confirmed it: heartache after heartache. Worst of all? *He* had been the source. The original Ayumu had been cruel—dismissive, sharp-tongued, often shouting at his own mother.

He studied Eina anew: no makeup, faint wrinkles tracing resilience. Ten years younger, she’d rival any celebrity. Life had simply worn her down too soon.

After a brief checkup, the doctor nodded. "He’s stable. You can process discharge soon."

Silence settled once he left. Ayumu stayed quiet, tangled in questions: *Did I steal this body? Is Zhang Chufan’s original body gone? Is "Ayumu" living my old life now?*

Eina, too, sat stiffly—lips parted, words trapped.

"Mom… is there something you want to say?" Ayumu finally asked.

"Ayumu… no—*Ayumu-kun*… please… don’t fight again?" Her plea came haltingly. He knew why. In Japan, "-kun" between mother and son felt distant. *He* had demanded she switch from "Xiao Bu" to "Ayumu-kun" after a bitter argument.

"Mom, I won’t fight again. And… call me 'Xiao Bu.' It’s fine."

He didn’t know his future here—but seeing her fragile hope, he chose kindness now.

Eina froze. *Is this really my son?* she wondered. *Did the injury change his personality?* The shift was so sudden… yet so gentle. She tucked the doubt away. If it was healing, she’d accept it.

"Xiao Bu… if you feel up to it, let’s go home."

"Okay."