Author's Preface
The scream didn't end.
It was removed.
I stayed frozen in the chair long after the silence settled back into place. My breath came shallow and uneven. The darkness in the kitchen pressed in on all sides, thick as damp cloth.
Don't be ninety-eight.
I didn't sleep.
You don't sleep in a place where silence listens back.
I sat on the cold floor, back against the cabinet, clutching a heavy iron ladle—the closest thing to a weapon I could find—until the first grey light of dawn seeped through the grime-streaked window.
Morning didn't bring relief.
It only made everything clearer.
The village in daylight looked drained.
Not peaceful. Not quiet.
Empty in the wrong way.
No birds. No insects. Even the dust didn't stir where I walked.
The houses sagged like old bones. The air carried the faint scent of ash. Even the sky looked thin, as if something had been scraped out of it.
I stepped outside.
Across the lane, the house with the candle stood open.
Not damaged.
Not burned.
Just vacant.
A few villagers had gathered in front of it. They stood in a loose circle, silent, unmoving. No one spoke. No one wept.
They simply watched.
The man who had led me here yesterday stood among them. His cigarette was gone. His face was expressionless.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice dry.
He didn't look at me.
“Someone sought the light,” he said quietly. “And was found instead.”
I pushed past him.
Inside, the house was spotless.
Too clean.
There were no signs of struggle. No broken furniture. No blood.
Only absence.
Near the door lay a neat pile of clothes—shirt, trousers, socks—folded as if carefully removed.
As if the body inside them had simply stepped out of itself.
My gaze shifted to the table.
Three bowls.
Two filled with steaming porridge.
The third—empty.
A woman stood by the stove, stirring slowly.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
“Ma'am,” I said, my voice unsteady. “The person who lived here—your husband—where is he?”
She paused.
Turned.
Looked at me with mild confusion.
“I live alone,” she said gently. “I always have.”
She smiled faintly. “Would you like some tea?”
The room felt colder.
I backed away.
Outside, I grabbed the man's sleeve. “She's in shock. She has to be. We need to—”
“Do what?” he cut in, his voice flat.
“There is no one missing.”
He pointed toward the village entrance.
“Go look.”
I ran.
The wooden post stood where I remembered it, wrapped in faded red cloth. In the daylight, the carvings on its surface seemed deeper—cut not just into the wood, but into something beneath it.
At its base, a fresh mark had been scratched into the stone.
A single tally.
The dust around it hadn't even settled yet.
Below it—
A name.
I leaned closer.
The letters wavered.
Shifted.
Softened.
Like wax beneath a flame.
Then—
They were gone.
The stone smoothed itself, blank and indifferent.
Footsteps behind me.
“The village doesn't keep the dead,” the man said.
I didn't turn.
“If a rule is broken, the error is corrected.”
His voice lowered.
“And the correction is complete.”
I swallowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, “that the one who broke the rule is not just gone.”
He paused.
“He is unwritten.”
A chill crept through me.
“His wife doesn't remember him. His home doesn't hold him. Even the road he walked forgets the weight of his steps.”
“Only this remains.”
He tapped the tally mark.
“A count.”
I forced myself to turn. “Then why do you remember? Why do I?”
His eyes met mine.
For the first time, something moved in them.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“Because we are witnesses,” he said.
“The rules need eyes.”
“If no one remembers the price, no one fears it.”
The wind stirred the red cloth.
It brushed against his hand.
Damp.
Not from rain.
“Your uncle remembered too,” he continued. “For a long time.”
My chest tightened. “Where is he?”
The man looked at me.
Really looked this time.
And something like pity crossed his face.
“You still don't understand,” he said softly.
“You didn't come here to visit.”
He gestured around us.
To the houses.
To the road.
To the silent sky.
“This is the Liu house.”
My blood ran cold.
“Your uncle didn't invite you home,” he said.
“He stepped away.”
“And you…”
“…have stepped in.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Violent.
Insistent.
I hesitated—
Then pulled it out.
The screen flickered weakly.
Unknown Sender:
The count falls to ninety-eight.
Before noon, find the room with no windows.
Or the count will fall again.
The message faded.
The light dimmed.
I looked up.
The sun was already climbing.
Shadows were shrinking.
“Where is it?” I demanded. “Where's the room with no windows?”
But the man was already walking away.
His figure blurred into the pale haze, footsteps soundless.
No one else spoke.
No one looked at me.
I stood alone.
Then—
I heard it.
Not from the houses.
Not from the road.
From below.
Beneath my feet.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocking wasn't coming from a door. It was coming from the soil.