The attic always smelled like something rotting.
Old wood. Wet insulation. Mildew growing through the corners. Wei Ran knew every line of it, every blister in the ceiling, every squeaking floorboard like the rhythm of a song he hated. The black stain above his bed had grown again, another inch closer this month. He didn't bother measuring anymore.
Below him, the noise never stopped. It wasn't war. It wasn't even joy. It was just life. Loud. Chaotic. Ten half-siblings screaming over each other, slamming doors, banging furniture. A stepmother who only used his name to accuse him of something.
A father who didn't seem to remember he was there.
He didn't shout. Didn't argue. Wei Ran had learned early that silence cost less.
So he listened. To the wind tapping against cracked windows. To the pages of a book flipping softly. To breath. His own and no one else's.
Silence, when it came, was a rare gift. Even now, locked behind the warped attic door, footsteps thudded overhead like war drums. The wind outside clawed at the rooftop like it wanted in. And no matter how hard he tried, it was never quiet enough.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He lay on the thin mattress, curled beneath a blanket that barely covered him, staring at the cracked ceiling inches from his face. His hands still burned from scrubbing floors. Another broken vase. Another lie. Another punishment.
And no one had spoken for him.
Not a word.
His thoughts spiraled.
I did everything right. I stayed out of their way. I did what I was told. Why does it still feel like I'm the one who doesn't belong?
He inhaled slowly through his nose. Exhaled. Again. Again. Counting the seconds. It helped sometimes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Still hurts.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I just want to be anywhere else."
He paused, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
"Somewhere quiet."
The wind fell silent.
No creaking wood. No distant footsteps. Not even the hum of streetlights through the attic window.
Everything stopped.
Even his breath.
It was as if the world itself held still.
Then, like a whisper inside his skull, a voice spoke.
"Finally."
Wei Ran blinked. His limbs wouldn't move. Not even to sit up. It wasn't sleep paralysis. It wasn't fear. It was something deeper. A silence so pure it echoed.
"Your soul... never belonged to that place."
The voice was cold and hollow, yet threaded with something ancient.
"Don't make me regret this, Wei Ran."
His name rang through the stillness like a stone dropped into a lake.
Something pulled at him. Not his body. His being.
A thread, drawn gently from the core of his existence. It didn't hurt. It felt like… being unzipped. Pulled loose and rethreaded. The attic blurred. The ceiling stretched away.
Everything turned black.
But not empty.
A warmth gathered in his chest.
A flicker, like breath after drowning.
"Remember. When the path is unclear… silence will guide you."
And then he was gone.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water hitting water, soft and rhythmic. A bowl beside a bed.
Wei Ran opened his eyes.
A smooth ceiling. Clean. Painted. Carved beams traced in gold shimmered in the lamplight. Curtains swayed in the breeze from an open window. The smell of herbs and polished wood filled the air.
His head turned, slowly. A woman sat beside the bed. She held a cloth in one hand and a bowl of water in the other. Her hair was tied loosely, face tired but gentle. She was humming something, but stopped the moment their eyes met.
The bowl hit the floor.
She gasped, covering her mouth.
Tears rushed to her eyes.
"You're awake," she whispered. "Wei Ran… you're really awake…"
He blinked. His lips parted.
How… how does she know my name?
The woman stood so fast her chair toppled. She ran from the room, shouting.
"Shen! Come quickly! He's awake!"
Heavy footsteps came down a hallway. A man entered—broad, weathered, breath caught in his throat the moment he saw Wei Ran.
They embraced him like he was a miracle.
Like they'd been waiting a lifetime.
"We didn't give up," the man said. "The doctors said your Dantian was shattered. That your soul might be lost."
"But we never stopped waiting."
The woman brushed his hair back from his forehead. Her hand trembled.
"You collapsed during the Qi test," she said. "They said… you were too weak. That there was nothing to awaken. But we knew you would come back."
Her smile cracked under the weight of tears.
They believed it.
They believed he had always been theirs.
Wei Ran didn't know what to say.
But he didn't pull away.
"I'm… sorry," he murmured. "Where am I?"
"You're home," the woman whispered. "Your memory will return in time. Just rest. You're safe."
Safe.
The word settled in his bones like firelight.
Later, they left the room. He stayed awake.
Wei Ran turned his gaze to the far wall. A polished brass mirror caught his reflection in the corner of the shelf.
He stared.
Same black hair. Same lean face. Same eyes that had seen too much, too young.
But different.
He felt it now. The weight he'd always carried—gone. That hollow ache in his chest—muted.
Not empty.
Not numb.
Just… real.
This wasn't the world he knew.
But it felt more real than anything he'd ever lived.
No screaming.
No punishments.
Just warmth.
Just silence.
The silence he'd wished for.
He didn't know where he was.
Didn't know what had brought him here.
But something inside told him…
This was where he was supposed to be.
This was the life that had always been waiting.
Not the attic. Not the noise. Not the rot.
This.
A place where someone wept when he woke.
A family that believed in him without needing a reason.
And even if the memories never came back
This name, this body, this world…
It belonged to him now.
He belonged to it.
For the first time in his life…
Wei Ran didn't want to leave.