Chapter 12: Deep Night, Deep Illness; Enduring the Frost Alone

The twilight had completely settled into the mountains, the last sliver of orange-red light swallowed by the peaks. Soon, the small village deep in the Yunan mountains was enveloped by thick darkness. Scattered lights peeked through the windows of various households—dim, yellow, and soft—swaying gently in the cool evening breeze, outlining the unique tranquility and stability of a mountain village.

Chen Mo walked back slowly along the cement road at the entrance of the village, his footsteps feeling several degrees heavier than when he had left. He had only stood at the village entrance for about an hour during the evening, yet the strength in his body seemed to have been quietly drained away. A fine layer of weakness spread through his limbs, and the faint, indistinct dull pain deep in his chest gradually became clearer and heavier under the cover of night.

He didn’t dare slow his pace, let alone lean against a wall to catch his breath. He could only keep his back straight and walk forward steadily, step by step, trying his best to look no different from any ordinary person returning home. His mother’s voice still echoed gently at the courtyard gate—the most reassuring call carved into his life—but hearing it now only brought a dense, prickling pain.

The closer he got to the front door, the more his forced composure teetered on the brink of shattering.

When he pushed open the courtyard gate, his mother was already waiting at the door. Seeing him return, a gentle smile immediately spread across her face. She stepped forward quickly and naturally reached out to support his arm, her tone filled with undeniable doting: “You’re finally back. It’s pitch black out; I thought you’d gotten lost and was just about to go looking for you. Come inside quickly, the food has been reheated, we’re just waiting for you.”

Her touch was very light and warm, as if she were afraid that applying too much pressure would tire him out. She held him loosely, being as cautious as if she were handling a rare treasure.

Chen Mo looked down at his mother’s hand resting on his arm—rough and covered in calluses, yet carrying a warmth that could soothe all weariness. His throat tightened slightly, and he gave a soft “Mm” in response. Without another word, he allowed his mother to half-support and half-lead him into the main room.

The dishes on the table were the same few from the afternoon, but they had been reheated by his mother, steaming and fragrant. His father was still sitting in his usual spot, silently smoking. When he saw Chen Mo enter, he merely looked up briefly. His gaze lingered for a moment on Chen Mo’s slightly pale face before he silently tapped out his pipe and picked up his chopsticks. His grandmother had been settled in the warmest corner with a bowl of soft porridge in front of her. As soon as she saw Chen Mo, she grinned, revealing a kind and aged smile.

“Mo Zi, sit down quickly and eat.” His mother pulled him into a seat and, just like at lunch, began incessantly piling food into his bowl. “Drink more soup tonight; it’s good for the stomach. You must be tired from walking during the day, so eating something soft will be more comfortable.”

She still didn’t pick up her own chopsticks, simply sitting by his side and watching him. Her gaze was focused and gentle, as if she would be perfectly satisfied as long as she saw him eat his fill.

Chen Mo picked up his chopsticks, his fingertips feeling slightly cold. Dinner was far less difficult to swallow than lunch, yet it still carried an unshakeable bitterness. He ate very slowly, struggling to maintain steady breathing and suppressing the faint nausea rising in his stomach. He chewed every mouthful carefully, not letting anyone see the slightest abnormality.

It was very quiet at the table, with only the faint clinking of dishes and chopsticks.

His father would occasionally ask a few simple questions, mostly about whether the journey was smooth or if the high-speed rail was convenient. He didn’t delve into why Chen Mo had suddenly returned home, nor did he press him about his life away. He knew his son was a man of few words who didn’t like to talk about his troubles, so he didn’t force the issue, offering only his silent companionship and providing him with the most stable space.

His grandmother was hard of hearing and couldn’t understand their conversation. She would only look up at Chen Mo from time to time, repeatedly muttering a few indistinct phrases, which were nothing more than telling him to eat more, rest more, and not work too hard.

A table full of warmth and a house full of concern weighed heavily on Chen Mo’s heart.

He didn’t dare eat for long, fearing his body wouldn’t hold out and that a prolonged silence would expose his weakness. After forcing down half a bowl of rice, he gently pushed the bowl away and said in a low voice, “I’m full. I’m a bit tired and want to go back to my room to rest.”

His mother immediately put down what she was holding and leaned in with a worried expression. “Are you tired? Did you walk too much this afternoon? Let me help you back to your room and get your bed ready. You should get a good night’s sleep and not think about anything. Mom is here.”

“No need, Mom, I can walk by myself,” Chen Mo gently refused. He was afraid that if his mother got too close, she would feel his icy hands, sense his tense body, and see through his feigned strength.

His mother didn’t insist, but she followed behind him all the way. She watched him enter the small room and, after confirming he was settled, nagged him with instructions: “Call me if you need anything, don’t just endure it. There’s water on the table if you’re thirsty, and tell me if the quilt is too cold, I’ll add another layer for you…”

The nagging voice gradually faded, the door to the small room was gently closed, and the sounds in the courtyard slowly died away.

Finally, the whole world fell silent.

Chen Mo could no longer hold on and slowly collapsed onto the hard wooden bed.

The quilt had been dried in the sun by his mother and was filled with the scent of sunlight—dry and warm. It enveloped his cold body, yet it couldn’t warm the chill in the depths of his heart, nor could it suppress the sudden explosion of intense pain within him.

It wasn’t the faint dull ache of the daytime, but a sharp, heavy cramping pain spreading from deep within his internal organs. It felt as if an invisible hand was ruthlessly clutching his viscera, slowly applying pressure and tightening its grip.

His whole body shuddered violently, and he bit his lower lip hard to prevent himself from making a single sound.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry, couldn’t groan.

Outside the room were his sleeping family members and the stability he was trying his hardest to protect. Even if the pain reached its absolute limit, he could only endure it alone in silence. He must not disturb the tenderness and peace outside this small room.

He curled his body into a ball, his hands pressing tightly against his chest, his knuckles turning white from the exertion. A fine layer of cold sweat soon broke out on his forehead, slowly sliding down his temples and soaking the pillowcase. His breathing became rapid and weak; every inhalation brought a tearing pain, and every exhalation seemed to exhaust the last of his remaining strength.

In the darkness, there was no light and no sound—only an endless sea of agony that completely enveloped and swallowed him.

He thought of the streets of Jiangsu and Zhejiang in his youth; he thought of the figure waiting at the entrance of the dark internet cafe; he thought of that clean, gentle girl he had chased for half his life. He thought of his wandering days as a migrant worker, the cowardice that made him too insecure to approach her, and the confession of love he could never voice. He thought of his family’s lifelong doting and protection, his own half-life of achieving nothing, and this death sentence that was about to bring his life to a close.

Regret, remorse, guilt, and pain layered upon each other, intertwining with his illness to become the sharpest of blades, repeatedly cutting into the depths of his heart.

There were no tears, no roars; even his sobs were suppressed deep within his throat.

When sorrow and pain reach their peak, they become this soundless silence, unable to even produce a sound.

He didn’t know how long he had been curled up like this. He only knew that the night outside was growing thicker, and the occasional distant barking of a dog soon returned to silence. The pain in his body came in waves, each stronger than the last. His consciousness drifted between clarity and blurriness, every second feeling like an eternity spent enduring the endless night.

He didn’t dare turn on the light, didn’t dare drink water, and didn’t dare turn over and make any noise.

He just stayed like that, silently and stubbornly enduring—enduring the pain, the bitterness, and all the resentment and despair of his life.

Until a faint glimmer of pale light finally appeared on the horizon, signaling that the dark night was about to fade and dawn was approaching.

The sharp pain in his chest finally subsided slowly, leaving behind only an extreme, bone-deep weakness that submerged him like a tide. Chen Mo released his lower lip, which had long since gone numb from his biting, and slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was a void of dead silence, devoid of any light.

Outside the window, the mountain village was waking up. Roosters crowed one after another, and cooking smoke was about to rise; it was another new day.

And he, in the darkness of the night known to no one, had once again endured an ordeal on the brink of life and death.

The small room remained quiet. Sunlight would soon pierce through the window frames, casting warm patches of light.

His mother would soon come to knock on the door, calling him to get up and eat in her gentlest voice, surrounding him with her unreserved doting.

He had to once again put on that mask of composure, once again pretend to be healthy and well, and once again face everyone who loved him with a smile.

He would hide all the pain of last night, all the bitterness, and every moment he had been on the verge of collapse in the darkness where no one could see, letting them rot in his heart, never to be shown to anyone.

The long night finally ends, but the pain does not cease.

The road home is long; only he remains to bear the burden.

This was his fate, and a sentence he could not escape.