I climbed off my scooter slowly, took a few steps to the left. The figures inside the bus stumbled and squeezed to the right. I stepped to the right, and they huddled tighter, as if terrified, like chickens or ducks crammed together in a cage awaiting slaughter. Cruel to say, but the resemblance was striking.
I didn't know what to do. I paced left and right several times, watching them panic, pressing against each other. Their frantic retreat mirrored my own heart—if my heart was still beating.
I sat back on my scooter, pulled out my phone. 12:52. Lunchtime. But what should I eat? I touched my stomach slowly. Not hungry. Good. I could skip it. But what else could I do? No internet, phone on power-saving mode. Only the clock worked.
Society is always noisy, people rushing endlessly. A moment of peace is rare. How long had it been since I sat quietly, no phone, no fatigue, no anxiety, no thoughts? I couldn't remember.
…
Maybe my stillness reassured them. They relaxed a little, no longer pressed so tightly together, though they still stared at me.
What does it feel like to be stared at by them? Honestly, not much. Maybe my senses were dulled.
How did they perceive the world? Eyes? Smell? Hearing? Some other sense? What kind of physiology kept them moving? I was curious. Modern medicine couldn't imagine it. And me—I was only at the beginner's level of medicine.
Then I thought: wasn't I one of them? The best observation subject. As for experiments… if that day ever came, forgive my selfishness.
I had my own thoughts. Did they? I watched them for a long time. Maybe I should try greeting them.
I swallowed, testing my voice. Only a faint rasp, like wind through a hollow tree. No real sound.
Still, I studied them carefully, hoping one might show a trace of human behavior, a flicker of human eyes. Hoping one might see humanity in mine.
Can eyes truly convey emotion? Medicine has no answer. Some research says the emotion you see is imagined, projected, not real.
Profound, isn't it? Puzzles without answers are perfect for passing time.
By early July, around six, the sun still half above the horizon, I felt their restlessness. Not just theirs—mine too. My body more agile, vision wider, hearing sharper.
So I heard sounds from the woods across the road. Saw a faint blue shape. I tensed, stayed on my scooter.
Luckily, nothing came out. Or it left another way. Again, I realized: maybe I didn't need to fear them. They wouldn't attack me. Which meant one thing: I was their kind.
The same kind. Such a beautiful phrase. Almost enough to make me cry. But I couldn't. I had avoided the word, but avoidance was useless.
They grew more restless in the bus, pressing against windows, clawing at glass, wanting out. But they didn't smash with brute force. I guessed they couldn't escape.
I set down my backpack, removed the key. Whatever happened, I had to go home. At least to see. As long as my parents didn't discover me, it would be fine. Simple. By now, no one would be outside. Everyone would hide somewhere safe.
I turned the bend. Houses appeared. Doors shut tight. Silent. Twilight heavy, like a dead town.
Exaggeration, maybe. Not a town—just a small village, houses strung along the road.
The first house was a shop. As a child, I bought snacks there. Later, less often. Even the neighbors grew unfamiliar.
Nearby families had children. In summer, adults brought them out to cool off. Noisy, enviable. The heart of the group.
One house I disliked. They had a mahjong machine, often calling my mother to play. When she left, I couldn't find anything at home, shouting at the door.
Next was my aunt's house. Her family lived away, left the keys with my mother. I didn't know how they were now.
Across from her lived migrants from the mountains. Somehow related. Their grandson called me "Auntie," I called his grandmother "Sister." In my mother's family, even children might call me "Uncle." So I cherished it. I cared for that boy more than any other child nearby.
He liked me too. Often asked, "Auntie, where's Uncle?" Uncle was my younger brother. The boy was three or four years younger than him. They played together, called each other "brother."
And then—my house.
A red tricycle parked at the gate. The potted plant, Daughter Red, more lush than before.
As I approached, a few wanderers drifted away silently. I didn't look closely, afraid of recognizing faces.
My aunt's door was ajar. Normal here. People often left doors open. Inside, only clutter. No sign of life. I climbed to the second floor.
Her two sons worked away, unmarried, but their wedding rooms prepared. I entered the one near my house, facing the road. New sofas, covered with dust cloths.
Not cold. I could sleep on the sofa tonight. But too early. I was a night owl. Never slept early.
I cracked the curtain, opened the window. Evening breeze. Listening. Few wanderers outside. But across the road, a curtain moved.
That house's window was shut. Not wind. I felt a spark of joy. Narrowed the curtain gap, watched closely.
But nothing more. Darkness fell. Disappointed, but fine.
I dragged a chair to the wall, pressed my head against it, hoping to hear something. But these rural houses were solid, well-built. Soundproof. I heard nothing.
Bored, I waited for dusk. For the first time, I realized how long twilight lasted. Watching the sun sink, the sky darken, felt like living through a whole day. Like sinking slowly into darkness, abandoned by the world.
Still, time moved. Slow, but steady.
Under night's cover, I pulled the curtain wide, leaned out, listened. Only insects. My eyes adjusted. Shadows faint, no movement.
Silence. Too much silence. I didn't know if it was good or bad. Fear rose. I wanted to tremble. But muscle spasms only made my stiff body less controllable.
I sat on the sofa, tried to think, to distract myself.
I had seen my house earlier. Door shut, curtains closed. Roof tiled, wood stacked for years of cooking. Meals possible.
No electricity. Fridge useless. But with rice and water, survival was possible. Water came from mountain springs, piped underground. No problems before.
That thought cheered me. And I remembered—the rooftop freezer. Full of cured meat, smoked and stored against insects. The second-floor rooms, newly renovated, doors solid.
Not bad. Really.
But the problem: my supplies were still on the scooter. And the scooter was back at the bus.
Daytime retrieval risked being seen. By people. By my parents. I couldn't be seen. Contradiction, irreconcilable. Night retrieval? Safer. No one watching.
But I was afraid.