I don't know whether I should be a monster or a fairy.
I have a nice name, Meng Po. Although I am actually just a quiet and delicate girl.
My occupation is cooking soup, commonly known as "Meng Po Tang".
Countless people come to my place for soup every day. Some of them came voluntarily and said with a smile that they could finally get rid of their sufferings and start over; Some of them were escorted by imps, crying and crying to be with XXX in the afterlife, begging me to let them go.
However, I won't let the bowl go back empty.
But I have always been curious about what makes those people so hard to give up and resist the temptation of Meng Po Tang. It is said to be something called love.
So, what is love? Is it as sweet as sucrose? Is it as bitter as Coptis chinensis?
Sometimes, when the children are not looking, I will secretly look through the life records of those people. I didn't know until I saw more. On the dead, people changed from small dolls to adults, and then gradually died of old age with the rotation of the sun and the moon, or came to me in advance when encountering natural and man-made disasters.
Why hasn't my appearance changed? How come my eyes never shed tears like a dead woman?
Is it because I am Meng Po who cooks soup?
I can't remember the year and month. It was only at sunset when the child escorted him in and knocked over the bowl of soup I served.
"Xiaorou, don't go." He pulled me hard.
I'm not moving. I feel horrible. Those hands, those hands with residual temperature.
It turns out that human hands are like this.
"Small soft, no one can take you away from me. Don't be afraid, I will protect you. " He has been talking.
"Who is Xiaorou?" I finally asked.
"Small soft, what's the matter with you? You are Xiaorou! " My hand was crushed by him, and I still feel no pain.
"You are wrong. I'm Meng Po. I have always been. " I looked him in the eye and said coldly.
Oh, it turned out that he was like this among the dead: mud tiles, cloth, coarse tea, white rice, books ... and a woman who looks like me, with a smart smile and beautiful eyes, called him a "nerd" all the way. He called him Xiaorou.
"Nerd, you are dead meat. Li, the overlord in your village, robbed your relatives and killed you. " I told him what I saw.
It's strange that I suddenly become wordy.
"No, you lied to me. Xiaorou, you are Xiaorou! " He came to hold the hand I just pulled out.
I saw water falling from his eyes and dripping into the soup in my hand.
"Drink it, and then you can have a new start." Then I poured the soup into his mouth with a little force as usual.
His eyes drifted away slowly, and those thick clay books and that delicate woman disappeared in the blink of an eye.
He left with the children, neither making money nor fighting.
I muttered: bookworm, just a bowl of soup, and you forget your softness?
Is this the so-called love so fragile, why should people suffer for it?
I'm still cooking my soup and peeking at the last memory in people's eyes.
I just never let anyone shake my hand again.
One day, I faced a white-haired old man who came to drink soup.
"Nerd, do you remember your past life, your little rou?" I asked.
His calmness surprised me. What I saw from his eyes was a blank. He spent decades,
Is it blank?
"Speaking of past lives and afterlife, people just walk in a hurry. You don't have to force what you can keep; If you can't stay, you have to let go. " He turned away, leaving me alone with an empty bowl.
Another life cycle, he stood in front of me.
"Nerd, do you remember the little soft? You were killed on your wedding day to protect her. " I asked.
"Who is Xiaorou?" He looked at me blankly.
War, escape, cannon fodder, torture ... In this life, he has suffered a lot. In this life, that woman is very strange,
He called her "Jinger".
"You forgot Xiaorou, you go." I handed him the soup.
Love, I see.
Although there is a vow of eternal love, it is no match for the abrasion of time.
The love in this life will not even leave a trace in the next life.
Beloved, hold his hand well. In the next life, the person around you will no longer be him.
Who do you remember loving?