For Qin Mo, morning was never heralded by a symphony of colors. Instead, it arrived as a subtle shift in the gravity of the air, a heavy dampness that signaled the transition of time.
He had never witnessed the dawn as it hemorrhaged across the skies of Qinghe Village. To him, the world was a meticulously assembled puzzle of vibrations and echoes. The day commenced when the raspy, jagged crow of a rooster splintered the silence, followed by the petrichor of sodden earth carried on a biting wind. Every sound possessed a measurable distance; every footfall held a distinct texture.
Qin Mo rose slowly from his straw mat, his movements deliberate. His fingertips grazed the earthen floor, tracing the jagged fissures he had committed to memory like a clandestine map. Three rough ridges to the left, a shallow depression before his knees. Here he stood, within a sanctuary no larger than the reach of his arms, yet to him, it encompassed the entirety of the cosmos.
"Mo'er, are you awake?"
That voice was the only luminescence he had ever known.
His mother's call always carried the same cadence—serene and unhurried, as if the chaotic world outside dared not intrude upon her tempo. Qin Mo turned toward the sound, though his eyes remained fixed upon a dense, impenetrable void. A faint, fragile smile traced his pale features.
"I am, Mother."
He tracked the rhythmic approach of her footsteps, the rhythmic rasp of coarse hemp fabric rubbing together, and then the intoxicating aroma of warm congee wafting through his senses. The scent of freshly boiled rice and the sharp tang of scallions—to a child shrouded in perpetual night, scent was the purest manifestation of devotion.
His mother pressed the bowl into his palms, her calloused hands guiding his small fingers around the warmth of the porcelain. She moved with an agonizing tenderness, treating him as though he were a fractured piece of celadon that might disintegrate at the slightest tremor.
"Careful, it is still scorching."
Qin Mo nodded with quiet obedience. He blew softly across the surface of the congee, feeling the steam caress his face. Beyond their walls, the village hummed with the pulse of life. There was the crystalline laughter of children at play, the rhythmic groan of wooden carts, and the distant braying of donkeys. Qin Mo listened with a hunger for detail, gathering these fragments of an invisible world to store within the sanctum of his mind.
By midday, as was their custom, his mother led him toward the riverbank. Her grip was small, yet it felt as unyielding as iron. Qin Mo sensed their arrival when the texture beneath his feet shifted from dusty silt to smooth river pebbles, accompanied by the melodic chatter of water colliding with stone.
He settled onto a flat, frigid boulder, feeling the river's current vibrate through the soles of his feet. Beside him, the rhythmic slapping of wet cloth against stone began. The sound of fabric being wrung and the erratic splash of water created a lulling rhythm that pacified the formless anxieties that often haunted his thoughts.
"Mother," Qin Mo murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the flow of the water.
"Yes?"
"Does... does everyone else see the world the same way I hear your voice?"
His mother's hands froze. The sudden vacuum of sound felt oppressive, as if the very air around them had reached a freezing point.
Qin Mo squeezed his fingers together, a sharp pang of regret piercing him. The question often surfaced in his mind like a hidden thorn—bloodless, yet perpetually felt.
"Why do you ask such a thing, my child?" her voice emerged, slightly more hoarse than before.
"They say the sky is blue. They say flowers are red," Qin Mo whispered. "But I do not comprehend 'blue.' I do not know where a color ends and a shape begins."
She resumed her work, though her movements were now labored and heavy. "Mo'er," she said softly, "not everyone walks the same path. But simply because your path is draped in shadows does not mean you are lost."
Qin Mo nodded, though a hollow ache remained in his chest. He was acutely aware of his own deviance. He could feel the weight of the villagers' gazes as he passed—some reeking of pity, others sharp with the scent of fear. He could not see their faces, but the timbre of a human voice could never camouflage a lie as perfectly as their words.
Toward evening, the wind shifted its course. Qin Mo tilted his face upward, inhaling deeply. There was a sharp, metallic tang in the air, a scent like ozone and static.
"There will be a heavy downpour tomorrow," he stated with absolute certainty.
His mother let out a soft, brittle chuckle. "Your instincts are sharper than the eyes of anyone in this village."
Qin Mo remained silent. He did not understand the source of his foresight. Just as he did not understand why, deep behind his sealed eyelids, a throbbing ache would occasionally bloom—as if something buried within was thrashing, desperate to break free.
Night descended. For Qin Mo, night was merely a change in the orchestra, as the birdsong faded into the rhythmic chirping of crickets. He lay beside his mother, feeling the faint warmth of the oil lamp crackling in the corner.
"Mother," he whispered on the precipice of sleep, "if I could see one day... what should I look at first?"
She did not answer immediately. Qin Mo felt her breath hitch, followed by the soft sweep of a hand over his brow.
"Look upon the world with a kind heart, Mo'er. That is more than enough."
Qin Mo smiled and drifted into a peaceful slumber. He had no inkling that the world awaiting him was far from kind. He did not know that "seeing" was a curse that would incinerate his fragile peace.
For now, within the embrace of his mother and the warmth of their timber home, the darkness was the safest place in existence.
To be continue...