June 28, 2027, 4:00 PM.

The National Highway gradually widened.

The black mud covering the road had been repeatedly trodden and compressed until it was as hard as iron. In some places, the layer of mud had peeled away, revealing the broken asphalt underneath, its varying shades like an old scab.

The dead fields on either side receded, and scattered houses began to appear by the roadside. Not enough to form a village, just a few scattered homes—two or three-story buildings with low courtyard walls. The paulownia or persimmon trees planted out front were dead, their bare branches coated in a thick layer of black ash, looking from a distance as if draped in a thin shroud of mourning.

The smell in the air changed.

The stench of rot that clung to the back of the throat, impossible to swallow away, had faded. In its place was an extremely faint scent—smoke.

It wasn't the acrid black smoke of burning tires or plastic he'd encountered on the road. Yu Molan could distinguish the smell of a wood fire—the unique, bitter yet warm scent of damp wood and dry straw burning without enough air.

When Yu Molan smelled it, his steps slowed involuntarily. The scent was like a thin thread drawn from the air, gently tugging at him.

Lin Zhixi noticed it too. She said nothing, only tightening her grip on Xiaoyu's hand. Xiaoyu was walking unsteadily, her shoes full of muddy water, making a faint squelching sound with every step. She didn't complain of being tired, just mechanically lifted and lowered her feet, occasionally glancing up at her mother.

Ahead, by the side of the road, was a courtyard.

Its iron gate was ajar. The paint on the once-red gateposts was peeling, revealing the mottled surface beneath. In the yard sat a pedal-powered tricycle, so rusted its original color was indiscernible. A few bundles of firewood were stacked in its cargo bed, covered by a Plastic Sheet riddled with holes.

Yu Molan's gaze traveled over the wall and fixed on the roof.

From the chimney, a very thin wisp of gray smoke was rising.

The smoke was faint, pressed down by the low, overcast sky. It clung to the ridge of the roof, dispersing slowly, as if afraid of being discovered.

His heart gave a violent thump.

Someone was here.

Someone alive.

He immediately pulled Lin Zhixi and Xiaoyu behind a dead tree by the roadside.

"Get down," he said in a low voice.

He peeked out, his gaze piercing the gap in the iron gate.

The yard was empty. The door to the Main Hall stood open, the interior as pitch-black as a cave. Against a wall was a simple stove built from a few stacked red bricks, a black iron pot resting on top. The flickering firelight from the stove's opening illuminated a human figure.

It was an old woman.

Her back was severely hunched, bent as if her spine had been broken. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back messily with a strip of cloth.

She was adding firewood to the stove, her movements slow yet practiced. The wood was damp; it hissed as she pushed it in, and a plume of white smoke billowed out, forcing her to turn her head and cough violently, her whole body shaking.

Yu Molan watched for a full five minutes.

He didn't see a second person, nor any other sign of movement.

After she finished adding the wood, the old woman wiped the soot from her face with the back of her hand and went back inside the house. The smoke continued to drift out intermittently.

"Just one person," Yu Molan said, pulling back and lowering his voice. "An old woman."

Lin Zhixi stared at the wisp of smoke. A flicker of hope lit up her eyes, but she quickly suppressed it. "Could they be...?"

"Unlikely," Yu Molan shook his head. "The infected don't make fires."

This was a lesson they had learned with their lives over the past few days. Those scattered things, the ones that acted as if something had eaten their brains, didn't seek warmth, cook food, or even know to get out of the rain. They just wandered aimlessly through the mud, hollowed out of every instinct related to being alive.

Lin Zhixi was silent for a moment, then finally said, "Let's ask. Maybe we can get some hot water."

Their canteen had long been empty. All they'd had to drink along the way was untreated water from a cistern in the last abandoned house. Even though they had purified it, the earthy, chemical taste made their stomachs churn.

Yu Molan grunted in agreement. He took the hatchet from his side, tucked it behind his back under his shirt, and kept a folding knife in his pocket.

He stood up, hands empty, and walked slowly toward the courtyard. As he neared the gate, he deliberately stomped his feet, making sure the squelching of his muddy shoes was clearly audible.

The old woman heard him.

She emerged from the house, holding a fire poker, its tip glowing with dull red embers. Seeing Yu Molan at the gate, her cloudy eyes narrowed. Her body went rigid, and she held the poker defensively across her chest.

"Who's there?" the old woman asked.

Yu Molan stopped about five meters from the gate. The distance was both a safety precaution and a gesture of goodwill. He raised his empty hands, palms facing forward, to show he wasn't carrying a weapon.

"Ma'am, we're just passing through," he said, his voice level. "We just came from the city. My wife and kid are back there. We were wondering if we could trouble you for a drink of hot water."

The old woman didn't respond.

Her gaze was like a pair of awls, boring into him from head to toe. His clothes were soaked and caked in mud, but his eyes were clear, his pupils focused, free of the dead, ashen haze.

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She then looked toward the road and saw Lin Zhixi leading Xiaoyu out from behind the tree. Xiaoyu's head was down, her shoulders hunched, looking like a little drowned kitten.

The tension in the old woman's shoulders eased, and she lowered the fire poker.

"Come in," she said. Her tone was still gruff, but the hostility was gone. "I'm just making cornmeal porridge. There's nothing else."

Yu Molan didn't move right away. "Ma'am, it's just the three of us. We're not hurt, and we're not sick."

The old woman snorted and turned back toward the stove. "I'm not blind. The ones who get sick like that are already rotting in the mud."

Though her back was stooped, her gait was steady.

Only then did Yu Molan turn and wave Lin Zhixi over.

The three of them entered the courtyard. The smell of damp firewood was stronger here, mixed with the faint aroma of cooking grain. From the pitch-black Main Hall, the old woman produced three chipped, coarse porcelain bowls and ladled out three servings of golden cornmeal porridge from the pot.

It was steaming hot.

"Eat," she said, handing them the bowls before sitting back down on a small, worn-smooth stool by the stove. She picked up the poker and prodded the firebox.

The porridge was thin, mostly broth, and unsalted. But it was hot, scalding hot, with the natural sweetness of corn.

Yu Molan drank too quickly, scalding his tongue, but he didn't stop, pouring a large mouthful down his throat and into his stomach. In that instant, a long-forgotten warmth exploded through his body, almost making his eyes sting with tears.

Xiaoyu held the bowl, which was bigger than her face, blowing on the porridge before taking a tentative sip. Then she quickly buried her face in the bowl and began to drink eagerly.

Lin Zhixi drank the slowest. When she reached the bottom, she discreetly tipped the thicker remnants from her bowl into Xiaoyu's.

When they finished, the old woman refilled their bowls with another ladleful, saying nothing.

This time, no one refused.

The firelight danced, illuminating the four faces.

The old woman's face was a mass of wrinkles, like old tree bark, her eyes sunken deep in their sockets. She stared at Xiaoyu for a long moment before suddenly asking, "How old are you?"

Xiaoyu put down her bowl, glanced timidly at her mother, and said in a small voice, "Ten."

"Ten..." the old woman murmured, repeating the word. She drew idle circles on the ground with the fire poker. "My granddaughter was ten, too. She's gone."

The statement was abrupt, without beginning or end. No one dared to ask what had happened.

A log in the firebox popped, sending out a shower of sparks that immediately died out.

Yu Molan put down his bowl and asked in a low voice, "Ma'am, are there... any other people around here?"

The old woman added another damp log to the fire, and white smoke rose.

"A few, scattered. Most of the village is dead. The sickness, running away, or hanging themselves. The few families that are left are just keeping their heads down, trying to get by. Old Wang's family next door, there are still three of them. They came over the day before yesterday to trade some salt for supplies."

She paused, then raised her cloudy eyes to him. "You heading west?"

Yu Molan nodded.

"It'll be hard." The old woman shook her head and sighed. "This rain is endless, and the ground is completely waterlogged. The land starts to rise further west. The roads are even worse, and food is harder to find."

Yu Molan didn't respond.

He knew it would be hard. But he had no choice. Turning back meant certain death. Forging ahead was a one-in-ten chance of survival, but at least that chance was still there, dangling in front of him.

Night fell quickly.

The old woman let them stay the night in the Main Hall. The room had a stale, musty smell, and moss grew in the corners. Against one wall stood a hard plank bed and an old sofa with its cover peeling off.

The three of them squeezed onto the bed, covered by an old cotton quilt the woman had found for them. The quilt was heavy and smelled of mothballs and old age, but it was surprisingly warm.

The old woman didn't take the bed herself. She kept watch from her small stool by the stove, her back against the wall, clutching the fire poker like a guardian standing vigil through the night.

Yu Molan woke once in the middle of the night.

The room was dark, save for the dim red glow of the dying embers in the stove.

He heard the old woman coughing. It was a dry, suppressed hack, one cough after another, as if she were trying to expel a lung.

*Cough... cough, cough...*

She was desperately trying to stifle the sound, not wanting to wake them.

Yu Molan didn't move. He just lay there with his eyes open, staring at a hole in the roof where rain was dripping through.

*Drip.*

*Drip.*

The water fell into some unseen container, the sound crisp and monotonous.

It was the most peaceful night's sleep they had had since leaving home.