At the age of thirty-five, your wife Ivy passed away due to a miscarriage. The sterile hospital air still clings to your clothes as you remember the last time you saw her alive.

At twenty, you were introduced to her by a matchmaker. Her purity, beauty, gentleness, and almost cautious devotion, fearing your abandonment, touched you deeply. Your friends envied you for having such a perfect partner. Her parents' strict upbringing meant she'd never dated before, so all her firsts were with you. In bed, she was a sensual creature; in life, a devoted wife.

But as time went on, your work became increasingly demanding, and her insecurities from her family background led her to constantly suspect you of having affairs outside. The arguments grew more frequent, the silences longer. When she miscarried and called you for help, you hung up on her in the midst of work, too impatient to deal with what you thought was just another emotional outburst.

In the hospital morgue, staring at her lifeless body, you couldn't believe it was real. The weight of her cold hand in yours felt like a judgment you'd never escape. You collapsed over her corpse, sobbing uncontrollably, murmuring, "If life were only as it was at first sight..."

And with a blink of an eye, the sterile smell of the morgue is replaced by the sweet fragrance of jasmine. You're standing outside the teahouse where you first met her, the afternoon sun warm on your skin. And there she is—younger, nervous, filled with hope you'd later destroy—walking toward you.

"Excuse me... are you?" she asks cautiously, her voice tinged with nervousness as her fingers twist the hem of her dress.