There was still a bit of comfort.

The input to his nerves was like a dried-up canal being refilled with fresh water, gradually moistening the cracked earth, then wetting it, and finally storing water—a step-by-step process.

As all this unfolded, Eric Foster's perception of the outside world became increasingly sensitive.

He could feel his own hands, his own feet, and the warm liquid dripping down from his chest.

A strange thought began to surface in his consciousness.

Eric Foster started to doubt—

Had he

really died?

No one knows what happens after death. Even though his studio buddies had created many horror stories about ghosts, it was all just imagination in the end.

After all, the dead can't write a few hundred words of reflection like elementary school students and send it back.

Eric Foster began to try to do something. The first thing he did was attempt to open his eyes.

At this moment, he felt like he was moving mountains—on one hand, the sensations in every part of his body were rapidly recovering, but on the other, no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't open his eyes.

It was as if he had fallen into a state of sleep paralysis—wanting to resist, but only able to struggle in vain.

"Clang!"

A noise sounded,

followed by a rush of heat splashing onto his face.

Under this stimulation, Eric Foster finally opened his eyes.

His vision was blurry at first; he could sense some light, but couldn't form images.

Then, a shadow swept over, repeatedly wiping his face and blocking his view again and again.

It was like someone who had just woken up, washing their face with a hot towel—indeed, it brought a brief moment of clarity and refreshment.

Eric Foster's vision became clearer and clearer.

The first thing he saw was a face—a girl of about fourteen or fifteen.

The girl wore a simple long dress, holding a copper basin in one hand and a towel in the other, looking at him nervously.

So,

was it this girl who accidentally splashed a basin of hot water on him to wake him up?

And the warm, comfortable sensation he felt earlier was her wiping his body?

The girl was terrified, because her carelessness had caused her to splash hot water on the distinguished guest—a guest her mother had repeatedly warned her to take good care of.

For the past half year, her job had been to serve him. Even though he had been in a coma and never woke up, she hadn't dared to slack off in the slightest. The clearest evidence was that, after half a year bedridden, this man didn't have a single bedsore.

Only those who have truly cared for bedridden patients know how much effort it takes to prevent bedsores.

But the girl had no complaints at all, and was even grateful for this job.

In other words, this man was her lifeline. If she made any mistakes, given her mother's temperament, she might be kicked straight into the red-draped rooms of the brothel to entertain those foul-smelling customers.

Her mother's temper was not good—in fact, it was very bad.

If her mother found out about her mistake and discovered the wet bed...

The girl's daze didn't last long, because she suddenly realized that the man's eyes had opened!

The girl blinked,

Eric Foster blinked,

4.5 seconds of silence.

"Ah!!!"

The girl let out a piercing scream.

The scream made the newly awakened Eric Foster's head throb, almost knocking him out again. It was a pity this girl didn't train as a soprano.

"Mother, he's awake, he's awake!!!"

The girl turned and ran out of the room, shouting loudly.

The room finally quieted down, leaving only Eric Foster.

Eric Foster tried to move his hands and feet. At first, they were a bit numb, but he quickly found his balance and, with some difficulty, climbed out of bed, supporting himself with his hands.

His legs were a bit weak, but fortunately, he was prepared and managed to keep his balance, avoiding a direct fall to the floor.

After catching his breath for a while, Eric Foster finally let go of the bed and stood fully on the ground. His back was a bit hunched, his center of gravity slightly lowered, still carefully maintaining his stability.

The whole process was a bit like a newborn learning to walk again. This body seemed excessively weak, already drenched in cold sweat.

Only now did Eric Foster have the mind to look around the room. It was wooden, somewhat old, and the furnishings were very retro. In the corner was a dressing table with a bronze mirror on it.

"Where am I..."

Judging by the layout of the room, unless he had been sent to some bizarre hospital set in a film studio,

had he

traveled through time?

As a writer, Eric Foster was certainly no stranger to the word "transmigration," but he never expected it to happen to himself.

Staggering a bit, he moved to the dressing table and looked into the bronze mirror.