The flames behind them roared fiercely, yet they still could not light the road ahead.
The fire chased them with heat and crackling fury, but beyond its reach the darkness remained thick and unbroken, swallowing the street whole.
Shadows piled upon shadows, deep enough to hide anything—
deep enough to hide fate itself.
Suddenly, Wei stopped running.
The halt was so abrupt that Chun nearly collided with his back.
Before she could ask why, Wei veered sharply to the left, his grip tightening as he pulled her off the street and into a narrow alley.
They stumbled through the broken frame of a half-collapsed thatched house, disappearing from the open flames and into the dark.
The moment Chun crossed the threshold, the air changed.
She had only just clawed her way out of grief. Her eyes still burned, her nose still red from crying she hadn't allowed herself to finish. Yet the instant she stepped inside, a chill crawled over her skin.
It wasn't the cold of stone or night air.
A kind of quiet that pressed inward, tightening slowly around her chest, as if something unseen were drawing its fingers together around her heart.
This was Wei's home.
She was afraid of seeing that gentle, middle-aged woman lying on the ground.
That soft smile and that warmth that had once felt like home now cut like a blade.
She did not want Wei to be wounded by the same sight.
Inside, the darkness was dense and heavy. It clung to the walls, swallowed the corners, erased familiar shapes.
Chun felt Wei's hand tense suddenly in hers, as if he were bracing himself for something terrible.
Something waiting just beyond sight.
She said nothing.
She didn't pull away. She didn't ask questions.
She simply tightened her grip around his hand and followed his lead, letting him guide her deeper inside.
Slowly, their eyes adjusted.
As the darkness softened into shapes and outlines, a wave of warmth drifted toward them—air thick with the faint scent of charcoal and lingering heat.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet. Neat.
Almost painfully so.
The door bolt was secured.
A water bucket sat beside the stove, placed exactly where a hand would naturally reach.
Those were Wei's mother's habits.
Wei's steps slowed without him seeming to notice.
The pot lid on the stove was only half-covered. The fire beneath had been carefully pressed down, not left wild or abandoned. It didn't look like someone fleeing in panic.
It looked like someone who meant to come back.
Chun bit down hard on her lip. Every nerve in her body was still pulled tight, like a startled animal ready to bolt. Even so, she turned her hand and clasped Wei's fingers more firmly, squeezing with all the strength she had left.
It was the only strength she could give him.
She was afraid too—
afraid that if she let go now, even for a moment, there would be nothing left to hold on to. She wasn't good with words. She never had been.
But she knew this much: right now, Wei didn't need comfort spoken aloud.
He needed proof.
Proof that someone was still here.
Still alive.
Still responding.
Guided almost instinctively by Chun's grip, they began to move deeper into the house, feeling their way forward inch by inch.
A familiar scent lingered in the air.
Soft and Warm.
Slightly sweet with rendered fat.
Rabbit stew.
For a moment, Chun could almost hear it.
Wei's mother laughing by the stove, turning with a smile as she spoke.
"Chun's here. Come, try my cooking."
She would have reached for the plumpest rabbit leg and placed it into Chun's bowl without hesitation.
The memory struck so vividly that it hurt.
Then Chun stepped on something.
It was soft beneath her foot.
Too soft.
She recoiled instantly, stumbling back with a sharp intake of breath.
Her hand went cold in Wei's grasp.
She couldn't bring herself to look down.
"Wei," she whispered, voice trembling.
"The… the floor—there's something—"
She felt Wei's breathing change.
Quick. Shallow. Wrong.
It was as if the ground beneath him had vanished, and he was already falling.
She knew what he feared.
Not the dark.
Not the empty doorway yawning behind them like a hollowed skull.
He was afraid of touching something cold.
Afraid it would be his mother.
Afraid it would be silence that would never answer him again.
But it wasn't.
On the floor lay a pair of old boots—
Wei's boots.
Patched carefully, the leather reinforced along the seams. They were placed neatly by the door, toes pointing outward, positioned with deliberate care.
Someone had meant for them to be found.
Both of them let out the breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
Wei slipped the boots on without a word. These were for long journeys.
The house remained quiet.
On the table, bowls and chopsticks sat askew, as if a meal had been interrupted rather than abandoned. The ceramic pot still rested on the stove, its lid slightly ajar.
The smell of rabbit lingered, trapped in the air.
Neither fresh nor fully gone, as though time itself had hesitated here.
Wei picked up the bowl. He did not eat.
Instead, he turned it carefully, then held it out for Chun to see.
The rabbit meat in the clay pot was missing a piece.
Along the edge were marks left behind, teeth marks and torn fibers.
It did not look like anything taken with chopsticks.
It looked as if something had bitten straight into it.
He pointed again, this time to the rim of the pot.
The grease smears were wrong.
They were not shaped like human fingers.
They looked like someone had tried to hide the fact that the lid had been opened at all.
Chun lowered her gaze without thinking.
In the shadow beneath the bed, something was wedged tight.
She reached down and pulled it free.
It was a crumpled sheet of paper.
Only when she unfolded it did she realize what it was.
An old New Year print that had once hung on the wall.
It had been crushed beyond recognition.
Across the image ran a single deep tear, sharp and uneven, the unmistakable mark of a claw.
Wei's voice came out barely above a breath.
"Someone's been here."
"Where did Uncle and Aunt go?" she murmured.
Her voice was almost swallowed by the night.
The thought came to her then—not so much a deduction as a desperate wish.
"What if… what if they already escaped?"
The silence pressed down harder.
So quiet that even breathing felt intrusive.
Then—
Tap.
The sound was faint. Almost nothing.
It came from deep inside the house.
Chun froze.
For a moment, she thought she'd imagined it.
Then—
Tap.
Again.
This time, unmistakable.
Not wind.
Not wood settling.
It sounded like something being placed gently back where it belonged.
"…Wei?" she whispered.
But as the name left her lips—
Tap.
The sound came a third time, clear and deliberate.
From within the darkness ahead.