Two days prior.
The summer heat was oppressive, the sun scorching fiercely. Li Louqi's hometown wasn't accessible by high-speed rail; they had to board an old bus for an additional hour's journey.
The station was dusty, sweltering, permeated with the acrid scent of diesel mingled with earthy grit. Raucous voices, the cries of street vendors, the belching black fumes of rumbling motorcycles — this was a small county town.
Zou Kui stood at the exit with a simple suitcase, squinting slightly under the glare. The transition was jarring: from the hushed quiet of the provincial library to the clamor of the streets, from the cool comfort of air-conditioned rooms to this stifling, musty heat.
"Daydreaming?" Li Louqi nudged him gently with her elbow, her face alight with unbridled joy at being home. A fine sheen of sweat dotted the bridge of her nose. "Carsick?"
"No, I'm fine," Zou Kui shook his head, burying his tension beneath a carefully crafted veneer of ease. He studied the girl beside him—lively ponytail, plain white T-shirt, jeans—radiating the unmistakable glow of someone in their element.
They were classmates, having grown close through part-time work at the university library. She knew his situation: a bedridden father, a mother struggling to hold everything together. It was her insistence that had brought him home this holiday. "For a change of scenery, and so my parents can meet you," she'd said.
A rusted, rattling tuk-tuk swallowed them and their luggage whole, barreling down the country road. Outside stretched endless emerald rice paddies and shadowed mountain ridges. Louqi leaned against the window, pointing to a distant cluster of rooftops peeking through the haze. "Look, we're almost there! That! That's Huishan Town!"
The town was even more timeworn than Zou Kui had imagined. A single main street cut through it, flanked by uneven rows of crumbling buildings with peeling paint. The afternoon sun left the streets sparsely populated, stray dogs languishing in the shade, tongues lolling.
"Back home, little Qi?" A hoarse voice drifted from the open window of a roadside convenience store. A silver-haired, wrinkled old woman squinted at them, her gaze lingering on Zou Kui long enough to unsettle him.
"Granny Liu!" Louqi called back brightly. "Yes, break's started!"
"Good to have you back, good..." Granny Liu nodded slowly. "Your grandfather's been in decent spirits lately. Ai, old folks always like talking to the young. Hurry on home." She flapped a hand dismissively and retreated into the dimness of the shop.
With a chuckle, Louqi urged the driver to speed up.
They stopped at the mouth of a narrower alley. A weather-beaten wooden door swung open to reveal a meticulously kept courtyard—tools aligned in perfect uniformity along the wall, even the strings of drying peppers hung with precision.
"Dad! Mom! I'm home!" Louqi called out.
The kitchen curtain flicked aside, and a kindly middle-aged woman in an apron hurried out, wiping her hands hastily before her smile bloomed. "Ai, finally! Old Li, come quick! Your girl's back!" Louqi's mother.
A stocky, sun-browned man followed, saying little but grinning broadly as he relieved Zou Kui of the heaviest bag. "No trouble on the road? Inside, inside—it's cooler." Louqi's father.
Warmth—pure and unforced—filled the air.
Then, the light at the main room's doorway dimmed.
An old man stood there, whip-thin yet ramrod straight, dressed in faded army trousers and a simple undershirt. Deep wrinkles carved his face, but his eyes were sharp. Grandfather Li.
"Grandpa!" Louqi bounded over to hook her arm through his.
"Mm. Home at last." The old man's voice was gravelly but resonant. He patted his granddaughter's hand before turning to Zou Kui with an approving nod. "Sturdy lad."
Dinner was served at a small table in the yard—simple but hearty. Louqi's mother piled food relentlessly onto Zou Kui's plate.
Midway through the meal, Grandfather Li drew a small, compartmentalized case from his pocket. With methodical precision, he portioned out tablets and powders, swallowing them with practiced ease before returning the case to his pocket and smoothing his clothes.
"Grandfather, you're very precise about your medication," Zou Kui remarked offhandedly.
Before the old man could reply, Louqi's mother interjected, her tone a mix of amusement and resignation. "Oh, always. The old man's been exacting his whole life—dosage, timing, never a minute off. Heaven forbid a bowl sits crooked." As she spoke, she nudged a slightly askew soy sauce bottle back into alignment.
Louqi laughed, leaning toward Zou Kui. "It's true. Grandpa hates disorder. I had to hear about it for days if my toys weren't put away. Even a centimeter out of place would have him up at night fixing it. Drove him mad just looking at it."
A quiet, sheepish stubbornness played over Grandfather Li's face. "Order is order. How can one abide chaos?"
Later, he excused himself briefly, returning with an old military knife. The scabbard was well-worn, the grip's corded wrappings polished to a dull sheen.
"My old companion," he murmured, laying it on the table—parallel, always parallel—running calloused fingers along its length with a distant gaze. "Earned it in the army, back when life wasn't worth more than a belt loop. A lifetime ago."
Louqi whispered to Zou Kui, "His treasure. Usually, no one's allowed near it. He shows it off when we have guests, but insists it goes back in the exact same spot afterward."
After dinner, a neighbor, Uncle Wang, dropped by with homegrown bananas. Talk turned to Old Zhang from the other end of town.
"...Sturdy as an ox, that man," Uncle Wang sighed around his cigarette. "Yet just like that—gone. Got up at night, must've mixed up his meds, and by the time anyone noticed..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
Louqi's mother cut in hastily, with a furtive glance at grandfather. "Accidents happen. At that age, taking medicine correctly is crucial, no room for error." Grandfather Li was preoccupied—refilling his pill case with meticulous care, as if deaf to the conversation.
Uncle Wang shifted topics awkwardly.
To Zou Kui, it was regrettable, but not uncommon. Elders in the countryside, mixing up medication—these things happened...
That night, Zou Kui slept fitfully on the sofa in the main room. The mountain silence was unnerving.
Sometime past midnight, he woke to a faint, rhythmic creak... creak..., like soft-footed steps pacing with deliberate slowness. It seemed to come from Grandfather's room down the hall.
He held his breath. The sound stopped.
Perhaps it was just the old man's nightly routine. Or a rat.
He turned over—only for the whisper of muffled, overlapping voices to seep into the stillness, fraying his nerves with its incoherence.
Pinning it on insomnia and overactive imagination, he forced himself to ignore it.
Come morning, sunlight burned away the unease of the night. As he helped clear the breakfast table, Zou Kui noticed shallow gouges on the armrest of Grandfather Li's chair—a rough, scratched symbol of crossed lines.
"What happened here?" he asked idly.
Louqi's mother glanced over. "Oh, the old man fidgets sometimes. Just a habit of age."
Zou Kui nodded, yet the disquiet—instead of fading—deepened like ink in water, spreading unseen.
Absurd, he chided himself. Too much fiction lately. But whether out of instinct or paranoia, he resolved to stay alert.
After all, someone he cared for was here.