Wei walked into his family's courtyard.
The stove still stood where it always had. The iron pot lay tilted to one side, its bottom charred black. Inside were half a pot of rice; the water had long since boiled away. The grains clung to the sides, gray and hardened.
He reached out and touched one.
It cracked instantly, crumbling into powder beneath his finger.
On the wooden table nearby, a bowl gave off a sour smell.
He stared at it.
On ordinary days, when he came home, the meal would already be prepared—steaming hot, accompanied by his mother's smiling face.
On ordinary days, the house was always clean and tidy. He had never noticed how much dust could gather in just a few days. His mother would scold him to wash the dishes,something he hated. His father would, without fail, suddenly"have business outside" at just that moment.
And if Chun showed up uninvited, she would roll up her sleeves and help him, scrubbing the bowls dry with quick, efficient hands.
But now, standing before the table, his throat tightened. Not a single word would come.
"Wei, it's so dirty here! Don't you know to wipe it down?"
The voice rose so clearly in his head that he startled and turned around.
Only the hollow doorway stared back at him. The door panels were gone—blown or torn away.
He slowly turned back.
They should still be eating.
Perhaps still talking.
Perhaps someone laughing.
He stood in the middle of the empty room.
Yet his ears held only silence.
This mute ruin pressed harder than any scream.
He licked his cracked lips and shuffled outside to the water vat.
The vat was broken, but half-full. The ladle was gone, so he bent down and plunged his head directly into the water.
Cold. Sharp. Comforting.
When the surface stilled again, a face appeared.
Pale.
Red-rimmed eyes.
Purple lips.
The water trembled slightly.
Behind his shoulder—
a darker shape flickered past.
Like wings.
Like something unfolding.
Wei spun around, heart pounding.
The courtyard lay empty.
Only the collapsed fence.
Above, a crow circled low in the sky.
He exhaled shakily. It must have been the shadow of its wings.
He even shrugged his shoulders experimentally. His back felt bare.
"What happened…?" he whispered, only to himself.
"Why did this happen…?"
No one answered.
The wind rose. Night fell.
The entire village lay in deathly stillness.
Wei found some old clothes and wrapped them clumsily around himself. He had no heart to repair the door; instead, he dragged a broken plank across the entrance and collapsed onto his bed.
Above him, a large hole gaped in the roof. Through it, stars glittered indifferently in the night sky, as though nothing tragic had occurred below.
His throat bobbed. His stomach growled with hunger, yet he could not make himself move.
He suddenly remembered complaining once to his father:
"You're always telling me what to do. I wish I could go somewhere with no one else—just me. Wouldn't that be great?"
His father had hidden a smile in his eyes."Oh? So you want loneliness?"
"So what if I do? I could do whatever I want. That would be real happiness!"
Now the room was unnaturally quiet.
No one came to control him.
No one argued back.
Only boundless silence, like a frozen sea, encircled him entirely.
Wei turned over and eventually fell asleep.
In his dreams he murmured,"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" The words were so faint they were nearly swallowed by the air, yet they carried a pain that would not loosen its grip.
In the middle of the night, he woke again from the cold.
There was no fire in the house.
He knew he should make one, but the remaining firewood lay in the corner of the yard—near several villagers' bodies.
He hesitated.
Then stepped outside.
He gathered wood and lit a small flame.
It flickered weakly at first, then steadied.
Firelight spilled across the ground. His shadow stretched along the wall, stooped and trembling like an old man.
The flames crackled. The air warmed slightly, yet the mountain chill still crept slowly into his bones.
He hugged his arms tighter and leaned closer to the stove.
That was when he noticed footprints in the dust before it.
Smaller than his.
As if someone had stood there.
He reached out and compared them.
They looked like a woman's footprint.
Or perhaps a child's.
Fresh.
Something in his chest fluttered.
"…Chun?"
The name slipped out almost instinctively.
"Mm?"
The response was soft.
As if whispered right beside his ear.
His entire body went rigid.
Breath halted.
"…Chun?"
He spun around.
This time the voice seemed to come from the courtyard.
He stepped outside. Moonlight pooled across the yard, bathing everything in gentle silver, as if trying to conceal all the blood that had been spilled.
After a moment, he returned to the fire, dejected, and stared into the flames.
"I heard it."
He wasn't sure whether he had spoken aloud.
"Did you hear it?"
The fire flared suddenly.
As if answering.
He crouched slowly, hands braced on his knees. His breathing grew uneven.
Maybe he was too tired.
Maybe his mind was breaking.
Maybe he wanted so badly to hear her that he imagined it.
He closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
The fire was still fire.
The night was still night.
But then—
he realized something.
The fire had grown smaller.
As if someone had stepped on it.
One edge of the ash had collapsed inward.
He was certain that when he had left earlier, the pile had been intact.
He had not stepped on it.
The wind could not have crushed it like that.
He reached out and touched it.
The ash was still warm.
His heart climbed slowly into his throat.
"Idiot… I'm right here…"
The voice was very soft.
From directly behind him.