The children's voices grew louder outside.
Chenxi stepped away from me slowly, as if remembering himself.
"They'll be back any moment," he said.
I nodded.
Before the bamboo curtain lifted, he spoke again.
"If you're going to stay… you should know about them."
His tone had changed.
Not guarded.
Careful.
I waited.
"The eldest is Cao Jinhui."
A faint softness entered his voice when he said the name.
"He's eight. A ger."
I raised my brows slightly. That explained something in the memories — the faint heart-shaped mark I had noticed on the boy's wrist.
"He knows," Chenxi continued quietly. "About being different. The other boys in the village have already started whispering."
His jaw tightened.
"He doesn't cry in front of them. Doesn't cry in front of me either."
There was something almost proud there.
"He protects the others like he's their second parent. Especially after…" His voice hardened slightly. "After she left."
"She?" I asked gently.
"My ex-wife."
Not dead.
Gone.
"She walked away. Didn't look back."
Silence lingered.
"Jinhui saw it. He remembers."
"And he resents her," I said.
Chenxi nodded once.
"He doesn't say it. But I've heard him wake up angry."
I absorbed that.
An eight-year-old ger. Forced to grow up too fast.
"Cao Yixuan is next," Chenxi continued. "Six years old. A regular male."
His expression softened again.
"He's quiet. Follows Jinhui everywhere. If Jinhui climbs a tree, he climbs. If Jinhui argues, he stands behind him like a shadow."
"A loyal one," I murmured.
Chenxi gave a faint huff that might have been agreement.
"Then there's Cao Wenzhi."
His expression shifted.
"He's four."
There was hesitation now.
"He's… different."
"How?" I asked.
Chenxi's hands curled slightly at his sides.
"He flinches when someone raises their voice. Won't speak unless spoken to. Cries at night."
A pause.
"I didn't understand why."
His voice dropped lower.
"After she left, the neighbor's wife told me she'd seen bruises before. Said Suyin would hit him when I was in the mountains."
The air grew heavier.
My fingers tightened against my palm.
"He never told me," Chenxi continued, voice tight. "I didn't know."
The guilt was raw.
"You couldn't know if he hid it," I said quietly.
He didn't respond.
But he heard me.
"And the twins?" I asked.
That question changed him again.
"The girls are two. Cao Ruxue and Cao Ruilin."
His expression warmed, despite everything.
"Ruxue was born first. Loud. Fearless. Climbs onto anything higher than herself. If she sees a chicken, she chases it."
A faint shadow of amusement flickered through his eyes.
"And Ruilin?"
"Quieter. Watches before she moves. But wherever Ruxue goes, she follows. Like she's making sure her sister doesn't fall."
That made me smile slightly.
"They love their brothers," he added. "Especially Jinhui. If he sits down, they crawl into his lap like ducklings."
"And the youngest?"
Chenxi's shoulders shifted again.
"Cao Ziyang. Five months old."
A baby.
"He stays with the neighbors while I hunt. I trade meat when I can. If I don't…" He didn't finish the sentence.
I understood.
His voice changed when he spoke about the baby.
Softer. More uncertain.
"Cao Ziyang," he said quietly. "Five months old."
There was something fragile in the way he said his youngest son's name.
"He stays with the neighbors while I hunt," Chenxi continued. "Old Madam Liu watches him. I trade meat when I can."
"And when you can't?" I asked gently.
He didn't answer right away.
"He cries," Chenxi said finally. "More than the others did."
There was frustration in his tone — but none of it directed at the child.
"Does he eat well?"
"He drinks," Chenxi replied. "But slowly. Sometimes he refuses."
My mind was already turning.
"And development?" I asked carefully.
Chenxi frowned slightly. "Development?"
"At five months, he should be holding his head steady. Trying to roll. Reaching for things. Responding when people talk to him."
Chenxi went very still.
"He…" He hesitated. "He doesn't move as much as he should."
That wasn't good.
"When she left," Chenxi said slowly, "he was only a few months old. She stopped holding him much even before that."
His jaw tightened.
"I thought she was just tired. There were six of them. I was hunting more. I didn't see…"
He trailed off.
I didn't interrupt.
"When she left," he continued, voice lower, "he stopped smiling."
Something in my chest tightened.
"He used to smile when the twins laughed," Chenxi said. "Now he just watches."
I understood immediately.
Neglect at that age wasn't just emotional.
It was neurological.
Infants need touch. Voice. Eye contact. Warmth. Consistent response. Without it, their brains don't wire properly. Development slows. Attachment fractures.
"He was left at only a few months old," Chenxi said quietly. "He doesn't reach for people the way the others did."
He finally looked at me.
"Is something wrong with him?"
There it was.
The fear he hadn't dared to voice.
I answered honestly.
"He's not broken."
Chenxi's shoulders loosened slightly.
"But abandonment that early," I continued carefully, "does affect babies. Their brains are still developing. If they don't get enough holding, talking, skin contact, stimulation… they can fall behind."
Chenxi's hands clenched at his sides.
"I didn't know."
"You were surviving," I said calmly. "You were feeding six children alone. You can't be everywhere at once."
Silence filled the room.
"He feels smaller than he should," Chenxi admitted quietly. "The neighbor's grandson is younger but stronger."
Malnutrition. Emotional deprivation. Possibly both.
"We can fix this," I said.
Chenxi looked up sharply. "Fix?"
"Yes."
I placed a hand over my belly briefly before lowering it.
"With consistent feeding. Proper nutrition. Holding him often. Talking to him. Encouraging movement. Letting him feel safe. He can catch up."
"Catch up…" Chenxi repeated like the words were too fragile to trust.
"Yes."
"He doesn't laugh much," Chenxi said after a moment. "The twins try. Jinhui tries."
"He will," I said firmly. "He just needs to feel secure."
Before Chenxi could respond, a faint cry drifted in from outside.
His head snapped toward the sound instantly.
"That's him," he murmured.
There was something raw in his voice.
Not just duty.
Guilt.
The bamboo curtain lifted moments later.
Jinhui entered first, tall for his age and watchful. The rest of the children followed close behind him.
And behind them, Old Madam Liu carried a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth.
When she handed the baby over, Chenxi's large hands suddenly looked careful — almost afraid to apply too much pressure.
Ziyang was small.
Too small.
His limbs were thin, movements sluggish. His eyes were open, but unfocused — observing without reaching.
He didn't fuss when transferred. He simply endured it.
I stepped closer slowly.
"May I?" I asked.
Chenxi hesitated only a second before handing him to me.
He was lighter than he should have been.
When I adjusted him against my chest, he stiffened slightly — unfamiliar with being held firmly and securely.
Then—
After a few seconds—
He relaxed.
Just a little.
His fingers twitched weakly against my clothes, not grasping — just brushing.
I lowered my head closer to his.
"Hello, Ziyang," I murmured softly.
His eyes shifted.
Not fully focused.
But searching.
Ziyang made a small sound — not quite a cry, not quite content. Just uncertain.
I instinctively adjusted him, supporting his head and spine more securely, letting him feel warmth and pressure instead of emptiness.
"He didn't choose to be left," I said quietly to Chenxi.
Something in Chenxi's expression cracked.
"No," he said hoarsely. "He didn't."
I looked down at the small, fragile baby in my arms.
"We'll help him," I said.
Chenxi watched us carefully.
"Together," I added.
The word lingered in the room.
After a long moment, Chenxi gave a slow nod.
"Together."
And for the first time since arriving in this world, I felt it — the fragile outline of something real forming between us.
Not just survival.
Family.