The bathroom door creaked softly as Jian stepped out, his skin pale and damp, his frame swaddled in an old towel.
The bath had left his wounds clean but had done little to soothe the ache. He groaned softly with each step holding the wall for support. He changed into the old godl crusted shirt and pant and walked over to the bed.
The old man stood quietly by the edge of the small room, watching with eyes that had seen more grief than joy. He didn’t speak. He simply reached out and helped Jian into the bed, his touch rough but cautious. Jian didn’t protest.
He curled in under the thin blanket like a child seeking warmth. His body finally allowed itself to surrender, to rest. Within minutes, he was asleep, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.
The old man didn’t take his eyes off him. He sat down on the low wooden stool beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced together. Even when Jian’s breathing deepened into soft snores, he remained there, guarding the stillness like it was sacred.
It was quiet, save for the hum of the old ceiling fan and the occasional barking of stray dogs in the distance. But then—
Tring tring tring!
The sudden shrill ringtone echoed in the small room loudly. The old man flinched, patting his worn trousers in a hurry as to not wake his grandson up. He fished out a battered phone held together by rubber bands. The display flickered dimly, showing only half a word.
WIFE
He stared at it.
She rarely called.
Even when he and Jian had left the house, finding refuge in the abandoned construction site, she hadn’t reached out. Not when it rained, not when Jian fell sick, not when the nights were cold enough to make bones ache.
But when the Wang family had adopted Jian, she wouldn’t stop calling. Again and again, her voice ringing with sudden maternal concern that hadn’t existed before.
Soon she revealed her true purpose. she demanded he send money.
With a quiet sigh, he answered, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping boy. "I’ve sent the money over. You don’t have to keep calling and screaming."
But what came through the phone wasn’t her usual scolding tone.
"You don’t understand!" she wailed, her voice frantic, broken. "Bian is hurt!"
The old man sat up straight, his back stiffening as a chill crawled up his spine. "W-what?"
"Old man, Bian is badly hurt!" she cried, voice cracking. "He’s crying nonstop—he’s burning up—I can’t carry him! I tried but he won’t wake up! He’s unconscious now! I—I need your help, please..."
Her words dissolved into pitiful sobs.
For a long second, he sat frozen.
Bian... hurt?
The old man’s fingers curled around the phone.
He remembered all too well how Bian would sneer at Jian when no one was looking. The small tricks. The whispered lies. The bruises Jian never spoke of.
But now Bian was crying. And she—his wife—was crying too.
Calling him.
Begging for help.
He couldn’t say no.
"I’ll be there in half an hour." He said cutting the call in a hurry.
He looked back at Jian. He reached out and pulled the blanket gently over the boy’s shoulder. Then, with a quiet breath, he whispered, "I’ll be back soon. Sleep well until I return, alright?"
Jian gently hummed as a reply.
The old man rose from the stool slowly, joints creaking. He tucked the phone back into his pocket and stepped out.
The old man walked all the way home under the mid-afternoon sun.
Sweat dripped down his temple and soaked the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t stop.
He wiped his face with the end of his sleeve and adjusted the cloth bag on his shoulder, taking slow steps up to the house. Just a month ago, this had been his home. Now it felt... unfamiliar.
The small house, once humble but clean, now looked neglected. Trash bags were piled up outside, some torn open with food wrappers scattered across the yard. He frowned deeply. Jian had always helped clean around the house. Without the boy’s quiet diligence, the place had gone to ruin in no time at all.
He stepped inside.
The air was thick and stale. Dust coated the floor. Dirty clothes were everywhere, dishes crusted with food left in the sink. The television was on in the background with no one watching, adding an eerie hum to the silence.
He barely had time to take it all in when his wife hurried in from the hallway. Her face looked red and sweaty, her hair a mess. She rushed to him.
"He’s here," she said, grabbing his hand. Before he could speak, she pulled him inside and closed the door behind them—locking it.
His brow furrowed. "Why are you locking the door?"
But her expression had shifted. The urgency she showed before was gone.
"Because I don’t want you to leave," she muttered. Then, suddenly, a cloth was pressed hard against his face.
His eyes widened in confusion. "What—"
It smelled bitter and strange. His limbs quickly went numb. Too weak to fight back, he stumbled, hitting the door as his vision blurred. He slid down to the floor, blinking sluggishly.
From behind her, Bian appeared. His arm was in a cast, but he still had that unsettling smile.
"bian..." the old man whispered under his breath.
Two other men walked out from inside the house. "are you sure he will come? The seller is waiting. He is willing to even pay in cash for his gold laying goose."
"Don’t worry," he said softly, crouching beside the old man. "With you here, Jian will come back. He always does, doesn’t he? He can’t help himself."
The old man blinked again, trying to stay conscious. His mouth moved but no sound came out.
His last thought was quiet, filled with helplessness.
Jian.... I hope he doesn’t come here..