"The calm of morning is fragile, but even fragile moments can carry the weight of destiny."
Feng Weiguo and Li Hua had always been the epitome of a loving couple, their bond forged through shared struggles and unwavering devotion. Weiguo's love for his daughters knew no bounds—he was the kind of father who would burn himself to ashes if it meant lighting their path. The thought of not being able to protect Xinyue from whatever horrors she carried in her heart gnawed at him, though he masked it with quiet strength.
Li Hua, on the other hand, was consumed by the anguish of a mother. She had always believed her arms could shield her daughters from any storm, but last night had shown her a truth she could not ignore—her eldest was carrying wounds no embrace could heal. The pain was raw, and the helplessness sank like stones into her chest.
Now, as they faced the mystery of their daughter's trauma, their hearts were steeled with a determination to protect and guide her. They had weathered storms before, but this… this was different. The tension in the air carried more than fear—it carried the weight of the unknown, the silent knowledge that the world outside their doors could unravel at any moment.
I woke with swollen eyes and a raw throat, my body heavy from crying. My pillow smelled faintly of tears and Lan's blanket, and the quiet of my room felt both comforting and suffocating. I turned my head and saw Lan curled against me, her small body trembling ever so slightly, as if she could sense my pain even in sleep.
"Xiao Lan," I croaked, my voice raw. "Are you awake?"
Her eyes fluttered open, still half-lidded. "Jiejie… are you feeling better?" she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.
I gave a faint smile. "Better," I lied. But in truth, nothing could erase the scars of a life already lived. The memories clung to me like shadows I couldn't shake—Zhou Han's betrayal, the teeth and claws of the horde, the helpless screams of the people I couldn't save.
Lan squeezed my hand and tugged me up. "Come. Let's wash up. Dad and Mom are waiting."
The morning light was pale and fragile through the curtains, casting long, trembling shadows across my room. My reflection in the mirror made me flinch—the hollow-eyed girl staring back was tired, beaten, but beneath the exhaustion burned a flame that refused to die. I splashed water on my face, hoping to wash away not only the tear stains but also the weight of knowledge I carried.
By the time we made it downstairs, the scent of porridge, fried eggs, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea filled the air. Mom greeted us with open arms, her hands warm on my shoulders as she kissed my forehead. The simple gesture sent a tremor of warmth through me, a reminder of what I was fighting for.
Dad sat at the head of the table, calm yet imposing, like the eye of a storm. His gaze swept over us, steady and grounding. For a moment, everything felt normal—the way a family should feel in the early hours of the morning, before the world outside reminded you how fragile life really was.
We sat down, bowls steaming before us. The quiet clink of chopsticks and soft scrape of ceramic against the table felt… ordinary. Almost comforting. A small island of peace amidst the storm of my memories.
"Dad," Lan chirped between bites, "did you hear about the news? Something about strange weather?"
My chest tightened. Strange weather. I remembered it vividly—the first whisper of the apocalypse, when rain fell black, skies bled red, and humanity's fragile order began to crumble.
"What news?" Father's deep voice carried cautious curiosity.
Lan shrugged, nibbling at a piece of fried egg. "I don't know the details. I saw something on the TV this morning before turning it off for Jiejie."
Before I could respond, the flat-screen in the corner flickered to life, left on standby from the night before. The morning news anchor's solemn face appeared, eyes fixed on the camera.
"Residents across the province reported last night's rainfall carried unusual coloration. Scientists claim preliminary studies suggest high levels of unknown particles in the atmosphere. Citizens are advised to remain calm as further investigations are underway."
I froze. My chopsticks clattered against the bowl. My pulse roared in my ears. Every muscle in my body tensed.
It was happening. Exactly as I remembered.
I turned to my parents, my voice low but firm. "This is what I warned you about. The rain… it's the beginning."
The room fell into silence. My father's chopsticks stilled midair, brows knitting tightly. Mother's lips parted, her eyes flicking between the TV and me, unspoken fear shadowing her expression.
Lan blinked, confusion and innocence etched in her face. Yet even she could sense the tension thickening the air—the unspoken realization that the world might not be safe anymore.
Father leaned back slowly, his gaze piercing into mine as if he could strip away every layer of doubt. "Xinyue," he said carefully, "last night you spoke of blood-red skies and deadly rain. And now…" He trailed off, glancing at the TV once more.
Mom's fingers trembled as she set down her bowl. "Heavens…" she whispered.
I clenched my fists beneath the table, forcing my trembling to stay hidden. "Believe me. When the sky turns red, when the rain falls again… the world will never be the same. If we don't prepare now, we'll regret it later."
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Father finally nodded once—slow, deliberate, resolute.
"Then we'll prepare," he said. "No matter how impossible it sounds."
Relief coursed through me, though it was tempered by the weight of reality. This wasn't just news. This was the beginning of everything I had seen before. And now, everyone I loved would have to face it too.
After breakfast, I found a quiet corner of the living room and pulled out my notebook. I had been jotting down everything I remembered from my previous life—the timeline of the apocalypse, the patterns of mutations, the locations of military bases, the behaviors of awakened humans. Every detail mattered. Every observation could mean survival.
Lan sat nearby, drawing silently in her sketchbook. Occasionally, she'd glance up at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Jiejie… what will we do first?"
I took a deep breath. "We gather supplies. We train. We figure out who we can trust—and who we can't. And we make sure this time, nothing catches us off guard."
Her small hands clenched into fists. "I want to help. I'll learn too."
A pang of pride and guilt struck me simultaneously. She was too young to shoulder this, yet her spirit was already brave beyond her years. "You will," I promised. "But you'll do it carefully. We survive smarter, not recklessly."
Hours passed in quiet preparation. I inventoried food, water, and medical supplies, mentally mapping routes and strategies. Each decision felt heavy with consequence. Every detail mattered—because mistakes in this life were fatal.
By late afternoon, the tension in the house had settled into a tense, alert rhythm. My parents moved with purpose, consulting one another quietly, while Lan practiced small drills I had taught her the night before. The normality of domestic life clashed with the knowledge of what was coming. It was almost surreal: a family preparing for a nightmare while still pretending it was a normal day.
At one point, Father leaned down, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Xinyue… remember, we face this together. You don't carry the burden alone."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I know, Father. But I have to… I have to be ready for anything."
Night fell slowly. I lay in bed again, listening to my family breathe, the quiet house a fragile sanctuary. The thought of the coming apocalypse pressed down on me like a weight I could not shrug off. My mind replayed my previous life: every betrayal, every scream, every moment I had been powerless. But now, I had knowledge, purpose, and a family who would fight with me.
I closed my eyes, letting the fire inside me burn bright. I would not let the past repeat itself.
This fragile morning was only the beginning. The calm would not last—but neither would fear dictate our fate.
We would prepare.
We would survive.
And when the sky bled and the rain fell black, we would face it—together.