Silence had become the first law of the house. Not spoken aloud, not written in lists, but carried in every glance, every step, every pause. The children had learned its rules by the way Lin Meiying moved and by the subtle shifts in Zhang Weiming's behavior. What once felt like warmth was now measured, restrained, a delicate balance they had no part in maintaining but were forced to obey.
Chen Feng woke before the sun had risen, quietly moving through the rooms to check that everything was in order. Dishes left from the night before were already washed, floors swept, windows wiped. His hands trembled slightly from fatigue, but he forced himself to continue. Every motion, every repetition, was proof of his obedience. Mistakes would be noted. Weakness would be remembered.
Chen Yue followed him with careful steps, silently observing. She adjusted the chairs along the dining table, polished surfaces that had already been cleaned, and folded clothes she had already folded twice. Each movement carried the weight of anticipation. Any misstep could bring punishment, even if unspoken. Her eyes flicked to her siblings, silently coordinating, silently protecting.
Chen Hao had stopped talking entirely, cataloging sounds and movements in the house instead. He measured the time between footsteps, noted the tone of voices, watched for patterns in tasks that could signal danger. His mind was a record-keeper. It was the only way he had learned to feel a small measure of control.
Chen Xin, youngest, tried to fill the cracks with laughter and stories. Her small voice hummed through the hallways, fragile as it was, attempting to soothe herself and her siblings. She pressed close to Lin Meiying when she could, clinging to the warmth that had once been their shield.
The escalation began subtly, almost imperceptibly at first. Tasks increased in length and repetition. Food portions shrank, framed as lessons in discipline. Sleep became a privilege, measured by obedience and completion of chores. The children adapted, but the strain became a constant pulse in their bodies, an unrelenting pressure they could not escape.
Chen Feng carried the greatest burden. At sixteen, his responsibility for the household and for his siblings had grown heavier than any child should bear. His days began before sunrise and ended long after dusk. He lifted, scrubbed, polished, and repeated, often under the watchful gaze of Zhang Weiming's mother. Each small error earned a look, a correction, a silent reminder of the consequences of imperfection.
Chen Yue, seventeen, bore a different weight. She was observed constantly, judged for gestures, expressions, the slightest hesitation. Every task she performed had to be precise, flawless. Any deviation brought whispered reprimands and extra work. Her mind grew sharp, alert, fragile, stretched to the edge of endurance.
Chen Hao, eighteen, suffered in observation and anticipation. Every step, every sound, every tone carried meaning. He did not speak. He did not intervene. He watched. He waited. His body weakened under the tension of constant vigilance, under the exhaustion of attention never allowed to rest.
Chen Xin, twelve, clung to fragments of innocence. She smiled more, told stories more vividly, tried to shield herself and her siblings with laughter that did not reach her eyes. Still, the household's rules pressed against her small frame, shaping her movements, her speech, her breath.
The first breaking point came quietly. Chen Feng collapsed while carrying a heavy basin of laundry across the floor. Not dramatically, not with a cry, but simply, as if his body had quietly surrendered. Lin Meiying rushed to his side, hands trembling. He looked up at her with eyes that were still, exhausted, filled with something deeper than pain—helplessness.
Zhang Weiming's mother appeared shortly after, expression calm, polite, as if discussing schedules rather than a boy who could barely stand. "He needs to learn endurance," she said.
Lin Meiying's protests were soft, carefully measured. "He's too weak. He can't continue like this. Please…"
Her words fell Into the silence of authority that did not bend. Zhang Weiming himself watched, expression controlled, smile neutral. No intervention. No leniency. only discipline, only observation, only expectation.
Chen Feng's collapse marked a shift. He returned to the tasks the next day, weaker than before, but still moving, still obeying. Meals became smaller, tasks longer, nights longer. His body faltered more frequently, but each lapse was covered up, framed as fatigue, weakness, or poor constitution. No one outside would notice. No one would intervene.
Lin Meiying tried again to protect him, to shield her children, but she was powerless. Each appeal was met with polite firmness: discipline, responsibility, and appearances mattered more than any child's endurance. Her hands shook as she touched his shoulder, offering comfort she was forbidden to give fully.
The children watched. Chen Yue took on parts of Chen Feng's workload, attempting to lessen his burden. Chen Hao stopped sleeping, standing silently by the door at night. Chen Xin whispered to her dolls, hoping the magic of words could fill the emptiness around them.
Days stretched into weeks. Chen Feng became frail, yet he continued. Chen Yue's hands bled from repeated scrubbing. Chen Hao's eyes were hollow from sleepless nights. Chen Xin's laughter dimmed to a whisper.
Then, one evening, Chen Feng did not rise. He had completed his tasks, had eaten what little was allowed, and yet his body refused him. Lin Meiying's panic rose, silent, careful. She moved close, hoping for a sign of life, but there was only stillness.
The explanation arrived as expected. Illness. Weak constitution. Fatigue. Nothing to alarm outsiders. Nothing to draw attention. The house continued. Life went on. Tasks remained. Silence pressed heavier.
The remaining children reacted in ways Lin Meiying could not guide. Chen Yue's hands shook as she folded laundry. Chen Hao's vigilance sharpened, scanning every corner for danger. Chen Xin clung to Lin Meiying, whispering promises to herself that her brother would return.
The mother's strength fractured. She moved through the house as if carrying weight that could crush her. Sleep eluded her. Food went uneaten. Her voice was low, careful, filled with the grief she could not fully show.
The remaining children felt the absence. They understood it was not accident. They understood it was not mercy. The rules had never been about learning, or growth, or kindness. The rules had been about control, endurance, survival, and silence.
Each day after that, punishment became sharper. Mistakes were magnified. Work intensified. Sleep was restricted further. Hunger became constant. The children endured, silent, small, obedient. Each understood that any resistance, any complaint, any weakness would be punished, and perhaps, removed entirely.
Lin Meiying tried one last time to leave, to take the children with her, to escape. Her plan was discovered before it began. She was contained, silenced, her voice made small. The house itself pressed in on her. There was no help. No one could intervene.