Wei felt a fear rising from deep inside his chest.
It was as if he had fallen out of a sprint and straight into something deeper and darker. He was afraid, but not of the dark house itself. He was afraid of stepping on something cold.
Afraid it would be his mother.
Afraid it would be that silence that would never answer him again.
For a few terrible seconds, he did not dare to move. His feet hovered just above the ground, his muscles locked, his mind filling in shapes that were not there.
He imagined the wrong weight beneath his sole. He imagined the sound it would make. Worse than any scream was the thought that there would be no sound at all.
Then relief came, sudden and almost painful.
On the floor lay a pair of old boots.
Wei's boots.
They had been patched carefully. The seams were clumsy but firm, the kind of work his father always did. The toes pointed outward, placed deliberately right at the doorway.
Both of them let out a breath they had not realized they were holding.
Wei stared down at the boots, his heart still pounding. The fear did not leave him at once. It only shifted, sliding into something colder.
Because something was wrong.
That was not how his mother usually placed them.
She always turned them inward, heel to heel, neat and tight against the wall. She said it kept dirt from spreading. She said it showed respect to the house.
These boots were facing out.
As if waiting.
Tap.
The sound was very light.
It came from deeper inside the house.
It did not sound like wood snapping underfoot. It did not sound like something being knocked over.
It sounded like something that should not have made a sound at all, being set back where it belonged.
Wei did not notice that detail at the time.
His eyes had already found something else.
An oil lamp sat on his bed.
It stood straight and centered, as if measured by hand. The wick was trimmed. The glass was clean. It looked ready to be carried.
"Chun," Wei whispered, his voice barely steady. "Do you see that lamp Every time my father goes out, he takes it with him."
He swallowed.
"But it is on your bed."
Before Chun could answer, Wei stepped to the wooden pillar in the corner. He reached up and untied a rope hidden in the shadows. Something creaked softly above them. From the beam, a woven grass basket lowered slowly into view.
Inside were fresh fruits.
They were clean. Too clean. Apples and pears with their skins unmarked, as if they had never touched the ground.
"You..." Chun began.
"Oops..." Wei said, then stopped himself. "No. That is not right."
He loosened another rope.
This time, several clay jars descended, each no bigger than a handspan. Their mouths were sealed with wax and cloth.
Chun's eyes lit with curiosity. For a moment, the tension slipped from her face.
"You have to make one of these for me someday," she said. "I want to hide my pollen jars too."
"Of course," Wei said, unable to hide a trace of pride. "I designed all of it."
"What is inside those" Chun reached for one of the jars without thinking.
"Do not touch that." Wei almost yelped. "That is my treasure. Fire oil jars. Light them and they explode."
"What? You put that over your head?" Chun's hand froze in midair, then snapped back. She stared at him.
From the look on Wei's face, she knew he was not lying.
Based on everything she knew about him, this was almost certainly some homemade tool he used for blasting fish out of streams.
Chun rubbed her temple. A faint headache was creeping in again. Every time Wei started doing things like this, she felt a sense of doom she could never quite explain.
"But this is perfect," Wei said suddenly. "We can use it today."
Before she could stop him, he slipped one of the jars into his clothes.
Voices outside were growing louder. Rough voices. Many of them. They were close now.
Both of them tensed again.
"Wei," Chun said quietly. She hesitated, then forced the thought out.
"Is it possible that your father wanted you to take the lamp and run?"
"No," Wei answered too fast. "He told me to wait for him."
The words came quickly, but his voice did not carry weight. It wavered, thin and hollow, like courage stretched too far.
"You need to decide," Chun said. Her mouth was dry. "We do not have much time."
Wei did not seem to hear her.
He moved around the room, testing walls, tapping here, pushing there. His fingers traced familiar shapes, but his steps were restless. He looked like a headless fly, circling without direction.
Then he stopped.
He leaned forward and pushed his head out through the narrow ventilation window.
In the next instant, his entire body locked.
He did not move at all.
Wind rushed in from outside. It lifted a strand of hair on his forehead. Even that slight movement looked wrong, like a signal that should not be there.
Chun sensed something was off. She took a slow step closer.
One glance was enough.
The small square outside was silent.
Firelight flickered among broken walls and collapsed roofs, but there was no wind. The flames danced anyway, as if stirred by something unseen.
Bodies lay on the ground in a neat row.
They were the village's young and strong.
Every corpse faced almost the same direction.
They looked arranged. Adjusted. Moved more than once.
Wei's eyes lingered on them for a heartbeat.
Then he jerked his gaze away.
His stomach clenched hard.
Not from fear.
From something else. Something wrong.
The place was too empty.
If this had been a chase, if this had been a purge, there should have been chaos. Broken lines. Scattered prints. Signs of running and screaming.
But there was nothing.
No extra footprints.
No marks of panic.
It was as if everyone who was meant to stay had already stayed.
Chun's hand tightened on the corner of his clothes without her realizing it.
"They did not try to run," she whispered. "Did they forget?"
Wei did not answer right away.
The chests of the bodies were gone. Hollow and black, like caves burned out. Red muscle curled outward, and the blood had long since dried into thick, dark crusts.
Only then did Wei notice how they were lined up.
Like soldiers waiting for inspection.
At the far end of the row, where the firelight could not reach, something crouched in the dark.
A tall shape.
It was wrapped tightly in black clothing. Its broad back was hunched, rising and falling like that of a huge bear pressed low to the ground.
Its head was lowered. Its shoulders shifted with small, steady motions.
A wet sound carried faintly through the air.
It was eating.