While Doutang was still somewhere deep inside the haunted school, Huaiyin had quietly
finished tidying their tiny apartment.
She spread out the bedding, switched off her console, and crawled beneath the covers.
Another night.
Another long, empty night without him.
Every time Doutang went on an investigation, he left her behind.
Even though she'd insisted that her "spirit-attracting" constitution could help, he always refused.
Maybe he was afraid she'd just slow him down.
Tonight was no different.
It was supposed to be her turn to help.
But that nightmare from the night before had shaken her so deeply she hadn't stepped outside
all day—
and because of that, Doutang had skipped his part-time job too.
How long could they keep living like this?
Bullied, forced out of school, haunted by the supernatural, and finally losing her real brother to
something inhuman—
Huaiyin's life had long since stopped resembling anything normal.
She was walking a path whose end she couldn't see.
And sometimes, when the quiet got too loud, a single poisonous thought whispered through her
mind:
Why me?
It circled endlessly, like a curse that refused to fade.
Sleep, she told herself. Sleep while he's gone.
Maybe if she slept, she wouldn't drift into his nightmares again.
Guilt tugged at her chest—the guilt of running away, of not helping him—but just for one night…
Just one quiet night without him haunting her dreams…
With that heavy thought, Huaiyin closed her eyes.
Dreams, however, never ask permission.
And once again, the dream found her.
When she opened her eyes, she was standing in a city blanketed by snow.
Thick, endless snow. Streetlamps bathed it in pale yellow, turning the white ground a warm color
that carried no warmth at all.
The clouds above glowed faintly red, staining the sky like a wound that refused to close.
Huaiyin stood at the gate of an old elementary school.
The entrance was a tall, ornate Chinese-style archway—red pillars, green beams, dragons and
phoenixes entwined across the plaque.
The characters carved there looked ancient, yet the meaning slid straight into her mind, as
dreams do.
Jiefang Street Elementary School
A crimson sky. A snowstorm rare in Japan.
That unmistakably Chinese gate.
This wasn't her dream.
This was China's dream.
A dream steeped in strangeness, in nostalgia, in sorrow older than memory.
It wasn't her dream.
It was his.
Huaiyin knew Doutang came from another world—from a place called Huaxia—but he had
never spoken of his past.
So why was she seeing it now?
Why was she walking through his memories?
The paint on the pillars had cracked and flaked.
The dragons had lost their color.
The whole scene breathed of decay and forgotten prayers.
Beyond the gate stretched a long, sloping path.
At the far end stood a small open-air stage, its backdrop painted bright red but faded with age.
On it, children from decades past smiled proudly, red scarves tied around their necks as they
saluted a flag that no longer waved.
Then—
Crunch… crunch…
Footsteps in the snow.
Huaiyin turned. Between two streetlamps, a young boy trudged forward, each step sinking deep
into the drifts.
His coat was thin, threadbare. His face flushed red from the cold.
On his back, he carried a younger girl—her lips blue, her body wrapped in an oversized army
coat, eyes shut tight.
The dream whispered in her ear:
It was a winter no one could ever forget.
"Xiao Yin, we're almost there. Don't sleep, okay? The doctor's gonna help you, just hang on,"
the boy murmured, voice trembling with exhaustion.
His pants were soaked and frozen stiff. Each step looked like agony.
"Mm… Brother, I'm so cold…" the girl whimpered weakly.
"It'll be warm soon. Just a bit more."
His breath came out in shaky clouds, white against the crimson sky.
He passed one streetlamp, then another, until he reached a small clinic.
A faded wooden sign hung over the door, its words half-erased by time.
"Doctor! Doctor!" he cried, pounding the emergency bell.
Footsteps sounded inside, then the door creaked open.
A man in a white coat, hair mussed from sleep, appeared.
"My sister—she's burning up! Please, doctor, help her!"
The boy swayed where he stood, barely holding himself upright.
His eyes were wide and wet with tears, the tip of his nose red from the cold.
"Quick, come in!" The doctor rushed forward, lifting the frail girl off his back and carrying her
inside.
A small stove burned in the center of the room. The doctor laid the girl beside it, then hurried
into the adjoining dispensary.
"When did the fever start?" he called over his shoulder.
The boy crouched by the fire, rubbing his frozen hands together. His gaze never left his sister's
face—panic and helplessness clouding his young features.
"Evening," he said softly. "Maybe it's too cold at home. She couldn't take it anymore."
"Where are your parents?"
The doctor returned, syringe and IV in hand. He didn't even bother checking her temperature;
one glance told him enough—severe frostbite, dangerously high fever.
"They're… busy," the boy whispered after a pause.
"Busy?!" The doctor's face twisted in anger. "Busy enough to leave their children freezing to
death?!"
He cursed under his breath, found the girl's tiny vein without a tourniquet, and inserted the
needle gently.
She was so thin that every line of her hand stood out like delicate glass threads.
The boy said nothing.
He just watched her—watched her shiver—and tears slid silently down his cheeks.
Watching him, Huaiyin's chest ached.
"What's your name, kid?" the doctor asked softly.
The boy sniffed, wiped his tears, and looked up.
"Uncle… my name is Ren Doutang."
Huaiyin froze.
Doutang.
The boy—
He was her brother.
No—
He was the real him.
The person he had been before he came to this world.
But why—
Why was she dreaming this?
Why could she see it?
Before she could think further, the world cracked.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A sound, sharp and heavy, broke through the dream.
Huaiyin's eyes flew open.
Her heart stuttered.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Someone was knocking.
The sound was cold. Mechanical.
Each blow calm but forceful, like a fist pounding on the wooden door.
Her blood ran cold.
Who would be knocking—at this hour?
The air was thick and damp.
The clock on the wall ticked once, twice.
She was alone. Completely alone.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound echoed through the apartment.
Who's knocking at the door…
when the nightmare ends?
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