The rain wouldn't stop.
It drummed against the leaking roof of the apartment, a dull percussion that seeped into Shen Qiu's bones. The single bulb above him flickered, its faint glow fighting against the shadows in the cramped kitchen. He sat at the rickety table, a half-finished worksheet spread in front of him. The numbers blurred on the page.
"Useless," his father muttered from the couch, voice slurred with drink. The man didn't even look up from the glowing screen of his phone. "What's the point of feeding you if you can't even bring home grades like your sister?"
Shen Qiu didn't answer. He never did. Words, he had long ago learned, only made things worse.
The silence stretched. A chair scraped against the floor. His mother moved past him, carrying a steaming bowl of noodles—straight to her husband. She didn't even glance at him.
He was hungry. His stomach twisted in protest. But hunger had become as familiar as the peeling wallpaper and the stale smell of cigarette smoke.
Shen Qiu lowered his head and returned to the worksheet, though the numbers refused to stay still. He knew the answers weren't coming. He knew his teacher would sneer tomorrow, and the snickers of his classmates would follow.
That was his life: the shadow to his sister's light.
The next morning was no different.
"Shen Qiu! You forgot your tie again!" A boy's mocking voice echoed through the classroom. Laughter rippled like wildfire.
He kept his eyes on the floor as he slipped into his seat.
"Idiot," someone whispered from behind. A wad of paper struck the back of his head.
He clenched his fists beneath the desk. His nails bit into his palms. He wanted to turn, to shout, to do anything—but the words died in his throat. He had tried once. The bruises had lasted weeks.
So he kept his silence. That was the only way to survive.
When the bell finally rang, he stayed seated, waiting for the others to leave first. It was better that way. Less shoving in the halls. Less chance of being cornered.
By the time he walked out, the corridors were nearly empty. Rain lashed against the windows, a gray curtain that blurred the city beyond.
He checked his phone. One message from his mother:
Pick up your sister on the way home.
His chest tightened. His sister.
But she never came home.
The rain grew heavier as the hours crawled by. Shadows deepened in the corners of the apartment. His father had already passed out, snoring on the couch. His mother sat stiff in her chair, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at the door that never opened.
When the clock struck nine, Shen Qiu couldn't sit still any longer. He grabbed his threadbare hoodie, ignored his mother's silence, and stepped into the storm.
The cold rain soaked him instantly, plastering his hair to his forehead. The streets were empty, puddles reflecting the sickly glow of neon signs.
Where would she go?
His mind raced through possibilities. Then, a memory surfaced—her favorite place.
The shrine.
An old, abandoned place hidden in the forest at the edge of town. She used to sneak there when they were children, dragging him along the endless stone steps, laughing as he struggled to keep up.
He swallowed hard and turned toward the forest.
The climb was worse than he remembered.
The stone stairs, slick with moss and rain, seemed to stretch forever. His legs ached. His breath came ragged. More than once he slipped, scraping his palms raw as he caught himself.
But he kept going.
Every step was fueled by the same thought: If something happens to her, I'll never forgive myself.
By the time he reached the top, his chest burned and his vision swam. He wiped the rain from his eyes and looked up.
The shrine loomed before him.
It was a ruin now—roof half-collapsed, walls dark with mold. Stone lanterns lined the courtyard, their flames long extinguished. In the center stood a cracked altar, slick with rainwater.
And there she was.
His sister.
Two boys and a girl huddled around her, their uniforms damp from rain, cigarettes glowing faintly in the dark. They looked up when they saw him, sneers curling across their faces.
"Who invited the creep?" one boy drawled, tall and sharp-jawed. Chen Hao, the class's star athlete."Don't tell me he followed us," the girl snorted, brushing wet strands of hair from her face. Mei Lian, his sister's closest friend.
"Pathetic," the other boy spat, short and wiry. Zhao Ren, known for his cruel jokes.
And in the middle—Lin Qian. Her expression flickered, caught between guilt and irritation.
"Qiran… what are you doing here?"
His chest heaved. "You… didn't come home. Mother was worried."
"Mother? Or you?" she shot back, her voice sharper than he'd ever heard it. "You always act like you care, but you're just… dragging me down. Like always."
The words cut deeper than any insult. He stepped toward her, hand trembling. "I just want you to come back."
Chen Hao laughed. "Listen to him. Acting like a big brother for once."
Zhao Ren smirked. "Maybe if you weren't such a failure, she wouldn't be embarrassed to be related to you."
Mei Lian's eyes narrowed. "He looks like a drowned rat. No wonder everyone avoids him."
Qiran's face burned. The rain hid his tears, but not his shame.
"Please," he whispered. "Let's just go home."
But Lin Qian shook her head. "You don't understand! You never understand! You're nothing but… nothing but dead weight!"
And then she shoved him.
His heel caught on the slick stone. His body pitched backward, the world tilting into chaos. For one breathless second he saw her face—his sister's wide eyes, caught between anger and regret. Then the cliff swallowed him.
The fall was endless. His back shattered against the ground, pain exploding in white fire before fading into black. He landed sprawled across the old stone altar at the shrine's base, moss and blood mingling beneath him.
His chest heaved once. Twice.
Rain pelted his face, mixing with the salt of his tears.
"Damn it all…" he choked. "Damn this life… damn everything…"
And as his eyes closed, the darkness took him.