After the Crash, I Saw My Husband’s Death Countdown

After a car accident, I saw a string of numbers above my husband’s head — the man I had loved for five years.

Yesterday it was 364; today, it had changed to 363.

I thought it was his death countdown, and I was terrified.

I arranged a thorough, full-body examination for him, but nothing abnormal was found.

Half a month later, when I was discharged from the hospital, the number above his head had suddenly dropped to 30.

I tried everything I could to extend his life, but it was all in vain.

Until the day he locked me in the bedroom and pressed a blade into my neck.

Horrified, I watched the number above his head drop to zero — only then did I realize…

It was my lifespan.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I first saw those numbers above my husband’s head.

The pain of my throat being slit made every pore on my body contract.

The next second, fresh air flooded into my lungs, and I clutched my neck, gulping for breath.

The sharp, sterile smell of disinfectant made me frown.

“Babe, babe, thank God you’re awake.”

I snapped my eyes open — I wasn’t dead.

Jason Miller stood there, the huge “364” above his head and the concerned look on his face both telling me one thing:

I had been reborn.

He held me gently, patting my back as if I were the most fragile treasure in the world.

Warm tears slid down my neck and into my collar.

His love felt so real.

If I hadn’t died once, I would still have believed it.

In my previous life, when I saw that number above his head after the accident, I had assumed it was his life ticking away.

I went to great lengths to protect him, never imagining that it was my own countdown.

And the one who would kill me… was him.

The husband I had loved for five years.

Why?

Why would he do this?

For five years, I had given him love, marriage, money, and status.

I had even tried for two years before I finally became pregnant — with the child we had been longing for.

“The baby… is gone.” Jason’s trembling hand brushed my cheek.

Before I could speak, a slap landed across my face.

“Rachel Evans! You finally got pregnant, and you just had to go driving around carrying my grandson!”

“Now look! You’ve cost me my first grandson!”

My mother-in-law, Margaret Miller, burst into the hospital room, immediately blaming me without a word of comfort.

That slap, coming from behind Jason, brought back a flood of memories.

I pushed him away, got out of bed, and started putting on my shoes.

Ignoring the pain in my fractured right arm and my body still reeling from the miscarriage, I bolted out of the room.

While running, I called, “Kevin Johnson, come to the hospital and pick me up!”

In my previous life, Jason had insisted on taking me to the suburban area to eat coconut pudding.

I drove him there, only for him to stop halfway, claiming he needed to use a restroom.

Moments later, a runaway van slammed into my car, sending me straight to the hospital.

At the time, lost in the grief of losing my baby, I endured my mother-in-law’s scolding and sobbed in regret.

By the time I thought of finding evidence, my car had already been crushed into scrap at the junkyard.

But now, there was still time.

When Kevin arrived at the junkyard, I was about to get out of the car, but he stopped me.

“Ms. Evans, you’ve just been injured — let me handle it.”

I gave Kevin a long, suspicious look.

He’d been with me for many years, but after experiencing my husband’s betrayal and murder in my previous life,

I could only trust myself now.

Pushing his hand away, I said coldly, “No need. If Jason comes over, just hold him back for me.”

Cradling my fractured arm, I rushed into the junkyard to search for my car.

Half an hour later, covered in dust, I pulled the memory card from the dashcam of my wrecked vehicle.

Sure enough, I heard Jason’s impatient voice:

“Kevin, I’m Rachel’s husband and the company’s general manager.”