Seventeen Years Ago
Mogu Valley
Coal-black thunderclouds had been gathering over Mogu Valley since morning, far from the bustle of Ayodale, where the world still pretended to be orderly. By afternoon, the sky began to growl. Thunder rolled low and distant, and the wind rose, dragging heavier clouds across the heavens—vast, coiling masses twisting together like a black dragon stirring in its sleep.
The sky looked alive with fury. The clouds knotted themselves tighter and tighter, like a rattlesnake winding into a killing coil, ready to strike some unseen transgressor below.
The sun had already slipped past the western horizon, but even its dying light never reached the valley. Darkness arrived escorted by wave after wave of thunderclouds, and then the rain came—violent, relentless, heavier than anything the low-lying village had known.
The road through Mogu had never been paved. Potholes filled instantly, puddles swelling into shallow pools that swallowed the earth beneath them.
At around ten that night, a black sedan crept toward the edge of the village. Mud streaked its sleek body, dulling its luxury. The headlights were off. With tinted windows and the storm as cover, no one could tell who rode inside.
Behind the wheel sat Dorian Wei, barely in his twenties. His grip tightened until his knuckles went white.
What am I really doing here?I never wanted this.
The car rolled to a stop. Dorian swallowed hard and glanced into the rearview mirror. Tears blurred his vision.
How am I supposed to persuade her?How can I let her abandon the baby?
One mistake. One drunken night.I should smash my head into the wheel—how many times before it breaks?
In the back seat sat Clara Chen. She was young, beautiful, soaked through—dress clinging to her skin, brimmed hat heavy with rain and sweat. She was barefoot. In her arms lay a newborn child, wrapped tightly in soft fabric, pressed close to her chest as if warmth alone could protect him from the world.
Lightning split the sky above the surrounding peaks, flooding the valley with harsh white light for a breathless instant. This place had no electricity, no comfort—only decay, neglect, and poverty. It felt less like a village than a forgotten borderland, a silent witness to things best left unseen.
"You sure you want to do this?" Dorian asked, for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Dorian… neither of us wanted this," Clara said, staring down at the baby.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "This little thing… is the result of something that should never have happened."
Rain battered the windows, as if the storm itself meant to erase the evidence of their sin.
"It has to go," Clara said. "Or I lose everything."
Her thoughts drifted back to her first year at university—the parties, the recklessness, the night that blurred into regret. That's how this thing came into existence.
"If you hated it so much," Dorian said, voice strained, "why didn't you abort it when I told you to? Why put yourself through all this?"
He loved her. Or thought he did. That night was alcohol. Just alcohol.
Clara didn't answer right away. She bit her lip.
Why am I saying these things to a baby?
She shook her head, unwilling to remember what carrying this had cost her.
"All I can do is leave it to fate," she said quietly. "That's as far as I can go."
She touched the baby's chubby cheek. Even in sleep, the child's tiny fingers curled instinctively around hers.
Dorian spotted a hut ahead—old, leaning, barely standing. A small window glowed with the dim light of a kerosene lamp.
"They don't even have electricity," he muttered. "Why here?"
An orphanage would have been better.I could have helped anonymously.
"Here is good," Clara said. "Get the stroller."
Dorian pulled the brake, left the engine running, and fetched the stroller from the trunk as rain soaked him through. Clara stepped out beneath an umbrella.
"Here. Hold this," she said. "I'll handle the stroller."
She laid the baby inside. He slept on, unaware.
"How can he sleep so peacefully?" she murmured.
"Isn't that better?" Dorian whispered. If he dies, let it be in peace.
"I told you—we could leave him at an orphanage."
"I don't want him traced back to me," Clara said sharply. "Or my father. Reporters are hyenas."
She pulled the stroller hood down. "He'll stay dry."
Dorian's heart pounded. His body felt heavy, burning from the inside out.
"Clara… please," he said, voice breaking. "We can still go back."
"They'll remember our faces," she replied. "People remember things like this. Even decades later."
They walked to the hut together. Clara left the stroller by the door and stared at it one last time.
"Blame your fate," she whispered. "And… I hope we never see each other again."
They returned to the car.
Dorian sat motionless. He heard nothing but the baby's cry.
Those tiny fingers… gripping her hand.Trusting.Only to be swallowed by darkness.
The wipers dragged uselessly across the windshield.
Ka-thunk.Judder.Ka-thunk.
A failing rhythm. Hypnotic.
Left to right.Right to left.
Marking seconds.Marking failure.
Tears slid silently down his face.
I wish I could die.What is the point of this life?
Beside him, Clara sat rigid, her face carved from stone. Her nails dug into her palm until blood welled.
It's for the better, she told herself.Everything will return to how it was meant to be.
Her mind flickered—briefly—to a rural clinic far away.
A doctor's voice.An ultrasound.A warning.
A phone call home.
Her father's cold command:Don't bring that thing back to me.
The engine started.
"We should go," Dorian said hollowly.
The car vanished into rain and darkness.
Thunder shattered the night.
The baby woke, crying desperately.
The light in the hut moved. The door opened. An old woman emerged, bent with age, lamp in one hand, walking stick in the other. She froze when she saw the stroller.
"Oh… heavens."
She dropped everything and gathered the baby into her arms, tears streaming.
"An angel at my doorstep," she whispered.
She carried him inside.
Outside, under the rain, the walking stick lay forgotten in the mud.