The morning ca dull and gray, the kind of sky that makes you feel like even the sun didn't want to get out of bed. The clouds hung low and heavy, pressing on the roofs, pressing on the people too. Yun woke up with a weight on his chest, though he didn't know why exactly, only that the air felt wrong, like it had been left out too long and spoiled.
Mother made breakfast millet porridge, the sa as always—but even that tasted different, bitter maybe, or maybe his tongue was just strange. She kept glancing toward the door like she expected soone to knock, though no one ever did that early.
"Eat," she said, but her voice didn't have the usual warmth, it was thin like a string stretched too tight.
Yun nodded and ate anyway.
Outside, the village looked almost normal if you squinted. Smoke from chimneys, goats bleating, the usual sounds. But the people moved slower, like they were tired even though the day just started. The children stayed close to adults, not running around like they used to. Even Old Guo didn't shout at the youngsters like he always did. He just sat on a stool near the well, staring at the woods and picking at his beard like a man waiting for sothing that wouldn't co.
Yun saw Shen Yu near the small field where the cabbages grew. He stood still, too still, like a scarecrow, except his eyes moved. They followed the treeline, slow and careful. Yun hesitated before walking over.
"You're looking for sothing," Yun said, though it sounded more like a question.
Shen Yu didn't look away from the forest. "It's looking back," he said.
Yun swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "What's it?"
Shen Yu didn't answer. Or maybe silence was the answer.
For a mont Yun thought maybe Shen Yu would say more, but instead he just turned and walked toward the well to refill a bucket, like that small task mattered more than the thing watching the village.
It almost made Yun angry. Almost.
By midday, strange things started happening again, but small things this ti, the kind that whispers rather than shouts.
A bucket cracked even though it was new.
A pot in Auntie Lin's house shattered when no one touched it.
Three chickens disappeared without any tracks, no feathers, no blood.
And the wind, the wind was the worst. It ca down from the mountain with a strange whistle, like soone were whispering a na through cupped hands, but the na was never clear, like Yuu—Yuu—Yunnn— but maybe that was just his mind tricking him.
Yun tried not to listen, but you can't really close your ears the sa way you close your eyes.
At afternoon, while helping Liang patch a wall, Yun felt eyes on him. Not a person's eyes. Not animal either. Sothing else. Sothing that knew him, knew his shape, knew his breathing.
He turned quick but nothing there, only the woods waving softly like they were laughing.
Liang noticed his pause. "You alright?" he asked.
Yun forced a breath. "Yeah… yeah, just thinking too much."
But even Liang didn't smile at the joke. Not anymore.
That night, no one gathered by the fire. No stories, no singing. The village felt smaller, as if night itself had pushed in closer. Doors shut early, windows shuttered, dogs tied near thresholds not to guard but because no one trusted them to stay still.
Yun lay awake again. He listened.
No crickets.
No wind.
Nothing.
Silence thick as mud.
Then footsteps. Not outside. Above. On the roof. Slow. Dragging. One step… another… then stopping right over his room.
Yun couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. His heart pounded so hard he thought the roof-walker would hear it. He wanted to call his mother, but the sound caught in his throat like a fishbone.
The footsteps stayed for a long, long ti. Minutes, maybe hours, ti felt broken. Then, finally, they moved again and faded away toward the fields.
Yun didn't sleep after that. He just stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, waiting for dawn.
When morning ca, Shen Yu was already outside. He looked at Yun once just one look and Yun knew:
Shen Yu heard it too.
Shen Yu knew it too.
Shen Yu had been waiting for this.
But Shen Yu still didn't tell him what it was.
And maybe… maybe that hurt more than fear.
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