9

The night had grown deep. Mo Wen had left his bedding with a family even more destitute than his own and wandered alone to the edge of the city by the river, carrying only a backpack and a heavy heart. The night wind was biting cold, making him pull his clothes tighter, already regretting his rashness. Above him, the starry sky was astonishingly bright. The Milky Way stretched like a silver river across the heavens, glittering brilliantly. Mo Wen had never seen such a spectacular sky, and in that moment, he felt insignificantly small, filled with a profound humility and reverence.

He thought of his father, the man who used to gaze at the stars with him when he was a child. His father often said,"Only the day you truly enjoy life counts as truly living. Living just to make a living or to earn others' envy isn't really living." But his father had disappeared—three years ago—without a trace.

Sitting on the riverbank, Mo Wen looked up at the stars as though conversing with his father:

"Dad, where did you go? Are you still out there somewhere? I have this feeling you're alive...

But why haven't you called me or written even a single letter? You left in such a hurry—something must have happened; you must be trapped somewhere. Tell me, what should I do?

Today was another busy day. I earned more than I used to at the office and even sent out over a dozen resumes. Jobs are hard to find now with the economy so bad, but someone as great as your son won't starve to death. I've got a job this year that keeps me afloat, so don't worry, and for heaven's sake, stop sending me money!"

Mo Wen chuckled at his own joke. His father had been gone for over three years; who was there to send him money anymore? Yet as he laughed, tears started streaming uncontrollably down his face.

Suddenly, he made a decision: to give up his current life.

"I want to visit Moon Lake again, retrace Dad's footsteps, and maybe—just maybe—find out where he went!" He never entertained the thought that his father might no longer be in this world. Perhaps his deliberate avoidance of that idea was what kept him moving forward in isolation.

But just thinking about the travel expenses gave him a headache. He resolved to save up some money first, even if it meant taking a risky job in a quarantine zone. That would help him leave this sprawling city sooner.

The icy wind stung as he stood up. A warm, orange light caught his eye, beckoning him. He walked toward it, unsure how far he'd gone when his body began to warm, yet the orange glow remained tantalizingly out of reach. Finally, he emerged onto a broad, open lawn.

In a city where land was so precious, the sight of thousands of square meters of grass left him awestruck. Where was this place?

The grass was neatly trimmed and glistened with dew under the moonlight, giving off a cold, silver shimmer. Rows of towering trees bordered the lawn, and at its far end stood the silhouette of a Western-style villa—silent and solitary. Curiosity mingled with the chill of the night wind as Mo Wen, adjusting his heavy backpack, gathered the courage to approach the villa.

Looking back, he realized he could no longer see the city lights, deepening his unease. It was Ghost Festival night, after all, and an ominous feeling crept into his heart.

The villa's dark door was ajar, resembling a gaping mouth waiting to devour visitors.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Mo Wen called politely, his voice echoing into the stillness. Peering inside, he saw moonlight spilling through large floor-to-ceiling windows. A crystal chandelier cast eerie shadows on the floor, resembling a silent night watchman. Shivering, he stepped closer to the windows, brushing aside thick velvet curtains that sent dust cascading down.

Through the moonlight, he spotted a zigzag staircase leading to the second floor and a seemingly endless hallway beyond, shrouded in darkness.

"Hello?" he called again, louder this time, but the silence was deafening.

Suddenly, the aroma of cooked food wafted from deep within the first-floor hallway. His nose twitched instinctively.

"That smells amazing," he thought, his hunger amplifying the allure.

Cold, exhaustion, and an empty stomach urged him to follow the scent into the dark corridor. Using his phone's flashlight, he discovered the hallway was unexpectedly long, branching off into other dark passages. His footsteps creaked on what seemed to be a crimson carpet covering an old, rotting wooden floor, evoking the eerie ambiance of a vampire's lair.

The aroma grew stronger as he rounded a corner, revealing an expansive kitchen with no doors. At its center stood a grand kitchen island, while the walls were lined with counters adorned with modern cooking appliances. A rice cooker's indicator light glowed red in the darkness, its aroma tantalizingly rich.

Mo Wen flipped the light switch by the door, and a vintage chandelier bathed the kitchen in a warm, orange glow. Relieved to finally see some light, he hurried to the counter, lifted the rice cooker lid, and was greeted by a comforting cloud of steam. The aroma of preserved meat glistened with oil, mingling with soy sauce and scallions—simple, yet deeply familiar.

Without noticing the unplugged power cord, Mo Wen rationalized his hunger away:

"Just eat a little, leave some money behind, and if necessary, work to pay it off."

He rummaged through a drawer, found a bowl and spoon, and quickly served himself. The first bite was blissful: the warm rice and rich preserved meat filled his mouth with savory satisfaction. The interplay of tender fat and chewy lean meat, seasoned with salty soy sauce, black pepper, and a hint of garlic, was irresistible.

The simple meal renewed his strength and hope, reminding him of the warmth and comfort food could bring to a weary, lonely soul. Leaning back against the counter, he sighed deeply, feeling content for the first time in days.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow cast under the light. Startled, he froze.