Chapter : 11 "The Weights Of Unspoken Thing's"

The sound echoed.

A sharp crack above their heads—quick, clean, final.

Qing Yue looked up instantly. "What was that?"

Bai Qi was already moving. His chair scraped the floor behind him as he sprinted to the stairs, two at a time.

Qing Yue followed, heart beating uneven.

They reached Shu Yao's room—door shut.

Bai Qi grabbed the knob, twisted.

Locked.

He knocked hard, once. "Shu Yao?"

Nothing.

Qing Yue's voice rose behind him, shaky. "Gege? Are you okay? What was that sound—did something fall?"

Still nothing.

Then came the third voice—sharper, careless. Their mother, stepping out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth like nothing had changed. "What was that noise? Did he break something valuable?"

Qing Yue turned, frustration flickering under her worry. "Mom, please—this isn't about things."

She pointed to the door. "It came from his room."

Their mother scoffed. "So? Ask him what it was."

"He's not answering," Bai Qi said, louder now. He knocked again—harder. "Shu Yao. It's me. Open the door."

Still silence.

Qing Yue leaned in, palms against the wood. "Gege, please. Say something."

But all they heard was the thick hum of the hallway.

No voice.

No breath.

Only their own panic rising—slow and loud.

Qing Yue pressed her ear to the door, her hands trembling. Nothing. No footsteps. No reply.

"Bai Qi," she whispered, "break it."

Bai Qi hesitated, glancing at her mother.

"No," her mother snapped. "He'll open it on his own. He always does."

Qing Yue turned to her, voice sharper than usual. "He's not answering."

Her mother folded her arms. "Maybe he's in the bathroom."

Qing Yue's breath caught. Her fists clenched. "And the sound we heard? That wasn't water. That was something breaking."

Silence pressed against the walls.

"You never cared," she said quietly, not yelling now—just letting the words fall like stones. "Not once. Not when he came home bleeding. Not when he skipped meals. Not even now."

Her mother's lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Gege," Qing Yue called again, softer this time. "Please. We're worried. I don't care if you broke something. I just… I just want you to open the door."

But nothing answered her.

No voice.

No rustle.

Just silence—and the echo of that sharp crack still floating in her ears.

Qing Yue turned to Bai Qi, her voice almost a whisper. "Break it."

This time, he didn't look for permission.

He took a step back.

Bai Qi tried once—shoulder against the door. It groaned but held.

He tried again—harder. No give.

The third time, he threw his weight into it.

The lock cracked. The door burst open.

And the scene inside stole the breath from both their chests.

Shu Yao was on the floor.

Kneeling. Shaking. Fever-glazed.

He was trying to clean.

With bare hands, he picked up the sharp pieces of broken porcelain, fingertips trembling, skin pale as paper. Sweat clung to his hairline, his breathing shallow, erratic.

Qing Yue rushed forward. "Gege! Stop—what are you doing?!"

She dropped to her knees, grabbing his wrist gently.

But he flinched, still clutching a shard. "It was expensive... I didn't mean to... I'm sorry..."

His voice broke, barely a whisper.

Then his head slowly slumped—leaning into her arm, fever pulsing off him like heat from coals.

"Gege... no, no," she whispered, holding him close, her heart pounding in panic. "You're burning up... Bai Qi—help me! We need to get him to the hospital—now!"

Bai Qi was already moving, eyes wide, throat tight.

At the doorway, their mother stood still.

Watching.

Then, quietly, she looked away. "I'll clean the floor. Just go."

Qing Yue glared at her—but said nothing. Her arms were full of someone who mattered more.

"Come on, gege," she murmured, lifting his arm across her shoulders.

But Shu Yao could barely stand.

Bai Qi crouched. "Here," he said, voice firm. "Let me."

Qing Yue helped guide Shu Yao onto Bai Qi's back. The boy barely stirred, breath hot against Bai Qi's neck.

"You stay home," Bai Qi told her, adjusting Shu Yao's weight gently. "I'll get him there."

"But—"

"I'll be faster alone."

She looked at her brother—barely conscious, arms limp—and nodded.

Then Bai Qi turned.

With fast steps, he rushed down the stairs, every bounce of motion making him grip Shu Yao tighter. He didn't bother calling the driver.

There wasn't time.

Not now. Not like this.

He had to run.

The front door slammed shut.

The sound echoed through the house like a memory.

Like something falling from a high place.

Bai Qi was gone.

With Shu Yao on his back.

With her brother—too hot, too pale, too quiet.

The house settled into silence again.

Not peaceful silence.

The kind that stretches too long, that hums beneath the walls.

The kind you hear after something shatters.

Qing Yue stood at the edge of the mess.

Then she knelt.

Her mother was already gathering the broken pieces—carefully, precisely, like she didn't want to touch them but wouldn't let anyone else do it either.

The sharp clinks of porcelain echoed against the dustpan.

Qing Yue reached for a shard, but her mother's hand got there first.

Still not a word.

"I know what happened back then," Qing Yue said softly.

Still nothing.

"I know why you're hard on him. Why you expect him to be the strong one."

She looked down at her hands—still trembling a little from the panic.

"But you shouldn't put pressure on him like this."

The words hung heavy between them.

"He's still growing, Mom. Still trying."

Her mother didn't speak.

She just kept sweeping.

"I know in your eyes he's still that toddler," Qing Yue whispered. "The one who used to follow you everywhere."

Her mother's hand paused over a jagged piece. Just for a second.

Then continued.

"But he's not that boy anymore. He's tired. He's been tired for a long time."

The dustpan was full now.

Her mother rose slowly, the way people do when their backs ache from bending too long.

She walked to the bin, tipped the pieces in. The sound of shattering twice.

Qing Yue stayed on the floor, watching her mother's back.

And even in the quiet that followed, she didn't look away.

Because this—this silence between them—

It wasn't made of peace.

It was made of all the things they never said.

The floor was clean again.

The cloth hung damp over the sink.

The broken bowl—gone.

The silence remained.

Qing Yue lingered in the hallway, not ready to return to her room.

Not ready to sit in that stillness again.

Her eyes drifted upward—toward the wall near the stairs.

There, in the middle of faded wallpaper and dull paint,

hung a frame she hadn't looked at in a long time.

She stepped closer.

The photo was old, slightly curled at the edges beneath the glass.

Colors a little faded, like memory always is.

But the warmth—it still glowed.

Her mother—smiling.

Not the tight, tired smile she wore now.

But wide, radiant—sunlight bottled in a face.

She was holding someone in her arms, clutching him like the world could fall and it wouldn't matter as long as he didn't.

A small boy, no older than three.

Soft cheeks. Big eyes.

A hand gripping the collar of her shirt like a lifeline.

Shu Yao.

Qing Yue's throat tightened.

And beside them, standing tall with one arm around them both—

A man.

Their father.

Hair slicked back, posture proud,

eyes kind in the way Shu Yao's eyes used to be—before shadows moved in.

Qing Yue reached up.

Her fingers brushed the cool glass gently.

Not over her mother.

Not even over Shu Yao.

But over the man.

Her father.

Then slowly… she slid her touch sideways.

To the little boy in his mother's arms.

She looked at him—looked into that frozen second in time—and wondered

when it all changed.

When her mother stopped smiling like that.

When Shu Yao stopped reaching for warmth.

When the picture stopped looking like home

and started looking like a lie.

The room was still warm from his fever.

Qing Yue stepped inside quietly, like she was entering a chapel.

Like her brother's breath still lived in the walls.

She looked around.

The blanket he had pulled halfway down was tangled at the foot of the bed.

His pillow damp with sweat.

The tray was gone, the broken bowl just a memory now—swept up like it never happened.

But the heaviness still lingered.

She walked to the bed and gently pulled the blanket up.

Smoothing it where it had wrinkled.

Patting it down like she was tucking him in, even in his absence.

Then his bag—carelessly set to the side when he returned from school.

She lifted it, brushed dust off the worn leather,

and set it near the shelf where his notebooks belonged.

She straightened the stack of books on the corner table.

Realigned the pen that had rolled to the floor.

Ran her fingers across the edge of his journal, but didn't open it.

Some things were still his.

When she was done, she stood in the center of the room—quiet and still—

and exhaled.

The bed looked neater now.

But the air felt just as heavy.

She turned and closed the door gently, careful not to make a sound.

Like any noise might crack the delicate quiet he had left behind.

As she descended the stairs, her steps slowed near the halfway point.

Her gaze drifted to the hallway.

There—by the low table, the sofa—

where she and Bai Qi had sat not long ago, before everything changed again.

The tea their mother had brewed sat untouched.

Cold now.

Still in its cup, like waiting for something that would never be finished.

Qing Yue walked over.

She picked up one cup. Then the other.

The ceramic was cool against her fingers.

She placed both into the tray, added the small teapot, and carried them to the kitchen.

No one was there.

Just the hum of the quiet evening settling in.

She set the tray down beside the sink.

Rolled up her sleeves slowly.

Turned on the tap—warm water rushing quietly into the basin.

A thin cloud of steam rose.

She reached for the first cup.

Washing them one by one.

Slow. Gentle.

Like if she scrubbed too hard, something fragile might break again.