Fortunately, no one was chasing them.
Chun and Wei arrived at a dark, unlit straw hut.
The door wasn't locked.
Chun hesitated, glancing at Wei.
She knew it was Wei's home, even with her eyes closed.
Wei stood at the doorway, hand frozen, not moving to push it open.
Leaving a door ajar like this wasn't like their parents. Unless… they were still inside.
But in this situation, if they were still in the house… then unless…
Wei's hand hovered mid-air, knuckles white, trembling slightly, unwilling to push the door any further.
Chun looked at him, drew a deep breath, and pushed the door just enough to slip inside.
The interior was pitch black. Not a single sound stirred.
"Uncle… Aunt…" Chun murmured habitually, stepping into the room.
The instant she entered, a coldness settled over her—not the chill of the air, but a cold that sank into the heart.
She was terrified of seeing the gentle middle-aged woman lying on the floor. That soft smile, the warmth that felt like home… right now, it felt like a blade.
She didn't want Wei to be cut by the same wound.
The room was thick with darkness.
She felt Wei clutch her sleeve, as if afraid that the next moment might reveal something horrific.
Chun didn't speak, only let out a quiet sigh and held his hand tighter.
At first, she thought he was just unused to the dark.
But soon, she realized something was wrong.
She had already adjusted to the darkness, but Wei's movements weren't just hesitant—they carried a subtle struggle, as if he were enduring something invisible.
The air smelled faintly of charcoal.
The furniture was intact, the water bucket placed within reach, neat as if their mother had left it herself.
Yet Wei's steps were careful, tentative, like a blind man feeling his way.
Chun's chest tightened—he wasn't afraid of the dark. He was silently enduring something, and she hadn't noticed it at first.
There was no lamp in the room. The single window was half-shut, letting night wind creep in, making the tablecloth sway gently.
The pot lid was slightly lifted. The fire in the stove had long been put out.
It wasn't the result of a panicked departure. It felt deliberate.
The air carried a familiar warmth, soft and comforting, with a faint sweet, greasy scent—the aroma of her mother stewing rabbit.
Chun almost imagined her mother at the stove, turning to smile, calling:"Chun's here—come taste my cooking!"
The room was deathly still.
Chun's gaze fell on the table, where bowls and chopsticks were neatly arranged.
The aroma of rabbit in the clay pot lingered in the air—neither dissipated nor completely cold.
Her eyes paused on the table again.
Beneath one of the bowls was a piece of paper, folded carelessly.
Chun's hand reached instinctively, then froze midair.
The paper was inconspicuous, yet her chest tightened at the sight of it.
She didn't grab it immediately. The silence in the room was unnatural—so complete that she couldn't even hear Wei breathing.
After a long moment, she gently drew the paper out.
It was thin, torn hurriedly from the corner of wallpaper or some scrap.
Chun glanced at it, lips moving silently, as if confirming the words.
"…Wait inside until we return."
She read slowly.
Afterward, there was no response, no sign that anyone was present. The words lingered in the air, suspended.
Suddenly, she noticed a corner had been torn from the paper, as if there had been more to write, but it was never finished.
Instinctively, she looked at Wei.
He didn't meet her eyes.
He stood still, gaze fixed on the paper, as if seeing through it, into something beyond.
He reached out, then slowly pulled his hand back.
Finally, he whispered:
"…These words… aren't quite right."
His voice was soft, almost as if he were convincing himself.
The silence in the room pressed down.
So absolute that Chun almost regretted reading the words aloud.
The table remained in place. The chairs were pushed close, as if their mother had left them tidily after a meal.
Unless… she had left in a hurry.
Wei's gaze slowly shifted toward the stove.
The pot lid was neat, the fire barely smoldering.
He didn't step closer. Not out of fear.
Wei couldn't be certain. If their mother had been taken, someone might have tried to make everything look as if"nothing had happened."
If she had left on her own, some details didn't match her usual habits.
Chun grew anxious as she watched Wei, frozen in thought.
Then—
"Click."
A soft sound echoed from behind. Chun spun around, heart jumping—but saw nothing.
It must have been her imagination.
"Wei… did you hear that?"
He didn't answer, continuing to scan the room.
Chun's unease deepened. From the darkest corners, it felt as if something was inching closer, quietly, deliberately.
"Wei… let's go quickly…" she whispered, instinctively stepping toward the door.
Her words had barely left her lips when her foot sank into something soft beneath her.
She recoiled in fright, hand instantly icy.
"Wei… the floor… there's…"
Her voice broke off, unable to finish.