October 12, 2027. Day 118 after the disaster.

Wang Laohan was clearing branches in the yard. Last night's rain wasn't heavy, but the wind was strong, breaking many limbs off the old dead trees. He bent over slowly, the veins on the back of his hand like coiled dead vines. Each time he straightened up, he had to brace his back with his hand and pause for a long while. He piled the broken wood together, staring blankly at the broken ends, as if he were watching his own crumbling life.

Next door, Zhang Shen was tending to a half-collapsed stove, using scavenged bricks to build a hearth. The edges of the bricks were uneven, stained with years of black soot. Her son handed her bricks, his small hands red from the cold, wiping mud on his pants with each pass. Zhang Shen's fingertips brushed the cold mud in the brick seams, sweat sliding down her forehead, trembling at the tip of her nose. The fire hadn't started yet, but there was already a flicker of its illusion in her eyes.

At the village entrance, the exchange point was still manned, the atmosphere cold as ice. Cracked oil bottles, dented lunch boxes, and rusty shovels lay scattered. Each item bore traces of its previous owner's life—the dents at the bottom of the lunch boxes, the grease stains on the collars of cotton coats. No one shouted, no one haggled. Those selecting items squatted, weighed, and nodded quietly, occasionally making eye contact, only to quickly look away. In times like these, too much eye contact was a provocation in itself.