No one, on that heavy night, could distinguish between the pounding of rain on the high roofs and the sound of Qing Han's father screaming. The sky was thick with dark clouds, and the wind howled through the narrow alleys as if warning of something to come, while raindrops struck wood and tiles in a chaotic rhythm that blended with a torn, human wail.
Inside, the screaming was like the howling of rabid wolves that had lost their way into the heart of a fragile home. His father stomped the ground violently, sending tremors through the room, and hurled utensils one after another, shattering them against the floor as though they bore witness to a collapse deeper than mere fleeting anger. Shards scattered beneath the dim light of a flickering lamp swaying with each gust of wind, casting shadows that danced along the walls like silent ghosts watching the scene.
As for Qing Han, he was kneeling amid the chaos, his hands hanging limp against the cold floor, his body motionless like a statue that had lost its soul. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide, staring at the horrifying sight before him as though trying to comprehend how a single voice could carry so much pain and rage at once.
His father spat a sharp curse and waved his hands wildly in the air, as if battling an unseen enemy or releasing anger that had built up in his chest for years. In that moment, it seemed as though the storm outside was nothing but a faint reflection of the storm tearing this house apart from within.
"Damn you, you bastard… I knew it, I knew you were a hopeless, ungrateful wretch. I should never have given birth to a vermin like you."
The words were not merely spoken; they were hurled like sharp stones, striking Qing Han's heart in places that had never healed. Their impact was harsher than any blade, for they did not wound his body, but tore at something deeper—something he had tried to protect despite everything.
In his father's eyes, his only fault was refusing to walk the path that had been forcibly drawn for him; to become a soldier in an army he had not chosen, and to carry a weapon he did not believe in. Qing Han had a simple dream—perhaps vague in its details, but it was his, something that belonged to him alone. Yet his father saw in those dreams nothing but weakness to be crushed, or an illusion to be uprooted entirely.
To the father, the army was not a choice, but an unquestionable fate. He did not want his son to succeed for himself, but to become a shining name he could wear upon his own chest like a badge of pride. He saw Qing Han not as a person in his own right, but as an extension of his ambition.
Amid all this, Qing Han could not move his lips. There was nothing left in his chest to say. The words he once used to defend himself were exhausted, and the arguments he clung to had collapsed one by one under the weight of repeated shouting. Even thinking itself had become a heavy burden, as though his mind had been worn down to the point of incapacity.
Tears slipped silently from his eyes, warm despite the cold, falling to the ground unnoticed. He remained still for a moment, as though time itself had stopped around him, or as if he had completely detached from the scene.
Then, with a strange slowness, he rose.
There was no hesitation in his movement, no anger, not even visible sorrow. He was like a machine responding to a hidden command, without awareness or resistance. He straightened his body and walked toward the door with heavy steps, while the echo of shouting behind him continued, gradually fading, as though it belonged to another world that no longer concerned him.
He pushed the door slowly, as if his hand did not belong to him, and the wood opened under his grip with a faint sound that quickly dissolved into the roar of the rain. He stepped outside without looking back, carrying with him that same coldness that had seeped into his depths moments earlier.
The yard stretched before him, muddy ground scattered with small puddles reflecting the gray light of the sky. The place was not unfamiliar; he had grown up here, in this quiet rural setting that now seemed to watch him in helpless silence. The few trees at the edges bent with the wind, their branches producing a low groan like an old complaint that no one remained to hear.
He walked with slow, heavy steps, as though each one was being torn from him, until he reached a worn wooden chair left near the wall. He dragged it without care, its legs scraping harshly against the ground, then sat upon it in complete rigidity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs, his eyes fixed on the ground before him—not searching for anything, nor fleeing from anything—just a clear emptiness, as if everything within him had gone out all at once.
He pulled his phone from his pocket in a mechanical motion and began scrolling across the screen without focus, moving between images and words unconsciously, as though performing an action his body had memorized while its meaning had entirely vanished. He did not see what was before him; he stared into nothing, into an empty space inside his mind where not even pain echoed anymore.
Behind the door, on the other side of that heavy silence, his siblings stood. They did not dare to come out, nor to approach. Their faces were tense, their eyes filled with tears that fell in suffocating silence, as though they even feared the sound of their own crying.
Their gazes clung to him through narrow cracks, watching him sit alone under the rain, unable to reach out a hand toward him. They knew that a single step might mean defying their father—a confrontation they did not have the strength for—and they were equally powerless to calm the storm inside.
And so, nothing remained for them but that silent pain, a heavy sympathy that tightened their chests from afar, without the power to change anything, nor even to offer comfort.
Qing Han remained seated, lost in a heavy daze, as if time around him had slowed to the point of nearly stopping. He could no longer hear the rain, nor the creaking of the wind, nor even the echo of shouting that had filled the place moments before. Everything had gone silent… or perhaps it was he who had gone silent.
Then, without warning, the light vanished from before his eyes. His body slipped backward against his will, as though an unseen thread that had been holding him had suddenly snapped. His hands went limp, falling lifelessly at his sides, while the phone slipped from his fingers and dropped to the ground, making a dull sound as it hit the mud. His head tilted to one side, and his features settled into an eerie stillness.
From behind the door, a sharp gasp broke out, torn by shock. One of his siblings could not suppress it, while the others raised their hands to their mouths in suffocating fear, their eyes wide, tears streaming without pause.
Qing Han could endure no more. He had held on for so long—longer than any human heart could bear—until he reached that unseen limit… where the mind intervenes, not to save, but to impose a forced rest, an escape from a burden too heavy to carry any longer.
One of his siblings finally moved, hesitant at first, then taking a decisive step outside. It no longer mattered what might happen afterward—he could not stand by while his brother collapsed before his eyes. But the moment his foot touched the dirt ground… everything froze.
The blood in his veins turned cold, as did that of the others, as though time itself had suddenly been paralyzed. It was not fear alone that restrained him… but something else, something his mind could not explain.
The air around Qing Han began to distort.
It was not merely the movement of wind, but a strange ripple, as though the very void itself were trembling. A faint light began to condense out of nothingness, a pale mist leaning toward transparency—yet… it was not natural. It seemed tangible, as though it could be touched, as though it were… alive. The mist coiled slowly around his body like a silent vortex, and as it thickened, the air grew heavier, until breathing itself became difficult.
Then, without warning… his body rose. It lifted away from the chair with terrifying slowness, as if an unseen force were carrying him in its arms. There was no resistance in his movement, no awareness—he was lost in a deep darkness, far removed from everything happening. His body continued to ascend, inch by inch, until he was suspended several meters above the ground, where he remained floating in an unsettling stillness, like a puppet moved by an invisible hand.
At that moment, the mist began to change. It was no longer just a vague veil—it thickened, condensed, and began to take shape… little by little.
Arms appeared first. Transparent, formed of that misty light, yet their features were disturbingly clear. They extended slowly, wrapping around Qing Han's body as though embracing him—an embrace that was calm, yet… inhuman.
Then the other features began to form.
Lines bent, gathered, and gained gradual clarity… a face.
The features of a woman's face. Not yet fully formed, but enough to make it clear… that what floated before the siblings was neither an illusion, nor a dream, nor anything the human mind could easily accept.