The Man Who Shouldn't Be Here
Yiling's breath caught in her throat.
She had spent years telling herself that she didn't care where he had gone. That he was a coward, that he had abandoned her, that she and the children had never needed him. But now, here he was—standing in front of her, looking like he had crawled out of the grave.
Her grip on the knife didn't loosen.
"…You shouldn't be here." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
The man—her husband—swayed slightly, his sunken eyes locked onto hers. He looked thinner, weaker, his once-proud stance now hunched as if the weight of the world had finally broken him.
He parted his lips, struggling to form words. "…I—I came back."
Yiling's pulse pounded in her ears. Rage, fear, disbelief—all of it tangled in her chest, tightening like a noose.
"You left," she said, her voice sharper now, the tremor in her hands hidden by the shadows. "You disappeared. And now, years later, you think you can just come back?"
His fingers twitched. "I… I didn't—"
The wind howled through the trees, and something about the way he hesitated sent a shiver down Yiling's spine.
"You didn't what?" she demanded.
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not just exhaustion or pain—but fear.
"I didn't leave," he whispered.
The words hung between them like an axe waiting to fall.
Yiling's grip tightened on the knife. "Then what happened?"
The wind picked up again, swirling the mist around them. The trees groaned as if whispering secrets only they knew. He took a shaky step forward, and Yiling instinctively raised the blade. He froze, his hollow eyes flickering to the weapon before locking onto hers.
"You won't believe me," he murmured.
Yiling's heart pounded.
He looked like a man who had seen something he shouldn't have.
Something that shouldn't exist.
She swallowed, her throat dry. "Try me."
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at her as if deciding whether to speak at all. Then, finally, he opened his mouth.
And what he said made Yiling's blood run cold.
—