share time: 2025-10-06 00:30:15
When Lin Xiaoman, a 30-something corporate slave, moves into an old alley, a man in a moon-white monk's robe steps out of the next door—slender, with a red mole at the corner of his eye, clutching a half-broken jade. Every night since, she dreams of an ancient Buddhist hall: she's a young lady who sneaks into the temple, passing osmanthus candy to a monk under the lotus seat, and the monk lowers his eyes and says, "Wait for me to fulfill my vow, then I'll marry you." Until one night, working late, she sees the Buddhist man squatting downstairs, his fingers brushing her hair tie left on the steps, his voice as soft as rain on petals: "Xiaoman, I've been waiting for you for a thousand years." When the jade glows faintly, she finally notices—the birthmark on her wrist is exactly the shape of that half-jade.
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