The first thing Li Xuan heard was a scream.
It tore through the thin wooden walls, sharp and raw, pulling him from the weight of sleep. For a while, he just lay there, eyes open in the dim light, his heart beating too loudly in his chest. Then came the pounding—heavy fists against the front door, followed by angry voices carried on the morning wind.
"Open up! You've had your time!"
He pushed himself upright, the threadbare blanket slipping down his shoulders. The air was cold, damp with the scent of wet ash and earth. Pale light crept through the cracks in the wall, painting thin bars across the dirt floor. His breath hung white in the air.
"Aunt Mei?" he called softly.
No answer but just another scream.
He stumbled out of his room, the floorboards groaning beneath his bare feet. Aunt Mei stood in the narrow entryway, both hands braced against the door as it shuddered beneath the force of each blow.
"Li Xuan, stay back!" she cried, voice trembling.
The next strike splintered the wood. The door burst open with a crash that threw her backward onto the floor. Three men stepped inside—rough faces, muddy boots, the smell of sweat and metal clinging to them. Behind them walked a thinner man in a dark coat, his hair slicked back, his smile sharp and false.
Aunt Mei scrambled up, her body shaking. "Zhao Lin… please," she whispered. "You promised to give us one more week."
Zhao Lin looked around the room with disdain, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "A week?" His tone was almost amused. "You've already had three. Debts don't pay themselves, Mei. This land belongs to the Zhao family now."
Li Xuan clenched his fists, stepping in front of his aunt. "You can't take it," he said quietly. "My uncle built this house."
"Your uncle," Zhao Lin said, eyes glinting, "was a fool. And fools lose what they love."
He looked at the boy longer than necessary. "You must be Li Xuan," he said finally. "You have his eyes.....stubborn and useless."
Then he waved his hand. "Clear it out."
The men began their work with cruel efficiency. One kicked over the small table. Another dumped a chest's contents across the floor—clothes, a cracked photo frame, a few letters tied with faded string. Aunt Mei rushed to stop them, but a rough hand shoved her aside, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Li Xuan moved without thinking. He stepped between her and the men, his thin frame trembling, but his voice steady.
"Enough," he said.
For a moment, everything stilled. Then one of the men sneered and grabbed his shoulder to push him away.
He jerked back with a hiss. "What—what was that?" he muttered, staring at his palm as if burned.
Zhao Lin frowned. "Don't start your superstitious nonsense—"
The man's face had gone pale. "He's burning. His skin—it burns!"
Li Xuan said nothing. The warmth pulsing in his wrist was faint but real—like something alive, something breathing beneath his skin. He quickly lowered his sleeve, hiding the flicker of golden orange light before anyone could see.
Zhao Lin's gaze lingered for a moment before he smirked. "Superstitious fools," he said coldly. "We're done here. Leave them whatever scraps they can carry."
The men muttered but obeyed. Soon, the little house was stripped bare with chairs overturned, shelves emptied, the smell of dust rising from the floor. Zhao Lin paused at the doorway, his shadow long and dark against the morning light.
"You should have remarried, Mei," he said quietly. "Pity doesn't keep you warm."
Then he was gone.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the shouting had. The open door let in a weak light, turning the dust into drifting gold.
Aunt Mei sat on the ground, her face hidden in her hands. Li Xuan knelt beside her, his fingers cold and trembling. "Aunt Mei…" he whispered.
She looked up at him, her eyes red. "It's all gone," she said. "Everything your mother left… everything."
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the small wooden box lying near the doorway—the only thing the men had ignored. Inside was a silver feather, faintly warm to the touch. He didn't know why it comforted him, but it always had.
Aunt Mei noticed it. "You still keep that?" she asked weakly. "It came with you when you were a baby. Your mother never said where it came from."
Li Xuan nodded. "It's all right," he said softly. "We still have each other."
He hesitated, then pulled a thin chain from his pocket and looped it through the feather. Carefully, he placed it around her neck. "This is for you. I can't repay you, Aunt Mei, but I'll never forget what you've done for me."
Her lips trembled. She pulled him close, holding him tightly. "You shouldn't have to live like this," she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "And neither should you. Parents suffer to feed their children, but that doesn't mean we don't see it. Or care."
He took her hand. "I promise you, anyone who hurts you will pay."
Li Mei's tears shimmered as she pinched his cheek. "You're crazy," she said, forcing a weak laugh. "Yesterday you skipped school, but not today. And by the way—the food you prepared last night was good except you forgot to add enough salt ."
He almost smiled. She stood and began gathering what little was left, her movements weary but determined. Even after losing everything, she still smiled. Still cared.
Li Xuan watched her for a long time. No one else in the family had taken him in. Only her. It was like she cared for him even more than her own mother but the warmth of a mother could never he replaced by anyone let a lone someone who cares more with all her heart
Outside, the wind howled through the broken door. The sky was turning gray, thunder murmuring far beyond the hills.
When morning finally stretched fully into light, Aunt Mei said quietly, "We'll go to the village. Old Mrs. Han will take us in for a while."
Li Xuan's jaw tightened. He knew that old woman—cruel tongue, sharp eyes. She would make Aunt Mei cry again. He couldn't let that happen.
"I'll be back soon," he said.
Aunt Mei nodded absently, too tired to ask where he was going. She bent down to pick up a few scattered things.
Li Xuan stepped outside. The path was muddy from last night's rain. Mist hung low over the fields, pale and silent. Behind him, the small house stood like a broken memory—its open windows gaping like wounds.
He said nothing. He only turned away and followed the muddy trail toward the road the men had taken.
After everything they'd done…
How could he possibly let them walk away free?