Chapter Ninety-Three: The White Flower of Those Years

The silvery laughter echoed through the white world.

“Yes! I hit you! Luo Hanya, you’re so silly!”

“Where am I?” Luo Hanya opened his eyes in confusion, only to be greeted by a snowball flying straight at him. He instinctively tried to dodge, but his body felt strangely out of sync, and he stumbled awkwardly, taking the snowball square on the cheek, which now bloomed with powdery white.

“Yes! Got you! Here comes another shot!” The excited voice sounded close by. Luo Hanya, wiping the snow from his face in embarrassment, gazed in surprise at the little girl tossing another snowball not far away, feeling an odd sense of familiarity with her.

The girl gave him no time to think, eagerly hurling her snowball with a clear target. But Luo Hanya, frowning and lost in thought, didn’t notice the incoming snowball and was struck again.

“Hey! Kid! What are you doing?” As soon as Luo Hanya uttered the words he regretted them, staring helplessly at his still youthful hands. He finally understood why his body felt so uncoordinated—he had become a child of about ten years old.

“Ten years old? That girl…” Luo Hanya’s heart pounded, bewildered and lost in his current predicament. He couldn’t comprehend why he had become this way, why he was here, in this strange time.

“Hey! Luo Hanya, are you angry?” The little girl patted her chest, her face rosy from the cold and full of laughter. She clapped her hands joyfully and spoke with pride.

Luo Hanya smiled, grabbed a handful of snow, shaped it into a ball, and stealthily tossed it. “Take this!”

“Aiya! Luo Hanya, you’re cheating!”

“You ambushed me first!”

“Hahaha, got you again!”

The silvery laughter rang out once more, even more lively, faintly like a farewell.

“Why is it this day?” In the somewhat shabby home, Luo Hanya stared blankly at the calendar. The earlier joy had vanished like a fleeting blossom, replaced by a nameless oppression filling the small house.

Without a word, Luo Hanya walked out, sat on the steps by the door, and gazed dazedly at a small house in the distance. Snowflakes still drifted down, and soon his cotton coat was covered with a layer of white, making him seem like a delicate statue, pure and white, lost in the world.

“Hey, little one, do you know the way to the nearest hotel?” A traveler with a large backpack broke the silence, dragging his heavy steps. He wiped sweat from his brow and asked Luo Hanya with a cheerful smile.

Luo Hanya slowly raised his head, his face icy cold, and pointed westward. “Go one kilometer west.”

The traveler’s heart jolted, his smile stiffening—not because of the boy’s pallor or lifeless voice, but because in that brief exchange, he was struck by the deep gloom and darkness in the child’s eyes.

“Oh, thank you,” the traveler replied.

Luo Hanya said nothing, slowly stood up, brushed the thick snow from his clothes, and his face remained expressionless.

The traveler shook his head, awkwardly rubbed his hands, seemingly wanting to say more, but the boy paid him no mind, rising and turning into the shabby house.

The traveler sighed, dragging his weary body in the direction indicated, his thoughts lingering on the boy’s gloomy gaze.

Luo Hanya checked the time and sighed. “It’s almost time to go to that place.”

Though he had anticipated this earlier, when the moment truly approached, he still felt pain, a sharp ache deep within, unbearable and piercing.

“I will never let that happen again.”

The snow fell harder, piling up unseen until it was several dozen centimeters deep. The once secluded street was now deserted. Night had fallen, yet the sky was still white, the glaring snow illuminating everything, as if it were a white night—a kingdom of white, a world of white.

In a seemingly deserted corner, a white figure slipped into a white building, a faint fragrance lingering along his path.

“An unfinished building, the makeshift room on the eastern side of the third floor.” The figure shook the snow from himself, removed a faded blue down jacket, revealing black sportswear. In such frigid weather, anyone dressed only in sportswear would soon be frostbitten, or even freeze to death. Yet Luo Hanya felt no cold; a fire seemed to burn within his heart, driving away all chill. His body was feverishly hot, sweat threatening but not coming, mirroring his inner turmoil.

Luo Hanya erased his traces, stepped over dusty stairs marked with children’s footprints, and walked heavily to the third floor, where several makeshift rooms for construction workers were scattered. The building had begun construction the previous year but was abandoned when its investor fled during the collapse of the real estate market. Since then, it was a playground for children; but at some point, lights began to flicker on the third floor late at night.

Luo Hanya silently watched the makeshift room in front of him, saying nothing, yet his presence brimmed with murderous intent and brutality, so much so that even the cold seemed to retreat. From his pocket, he took a small white flower, gently caressed its fragile petals, its faint fragrance lingering in the empty third floor. Luo Hanya crouched wordlessly in the corner near the makeshift room, allowing the darkness to swallow him, patiently awaiting the arrival of “it.”

The savage wind swept through the building, mercilessly stealing Luo Hanya’s warmth. Soon, his exposed limbs turned bluish-purple, numbness and stinging pain creeping through his nerves. Luo Hanya merely frowned, unconcerned, and continued his vigil.

A sudden sound joined the howling wind—a rubber-soled shoe striking the floor, abrupt and startling. Who could have imagined that on such a bitter night, someone would come to this long-abandoned building?

Luo Hanya’s half-closed eyes snapped open, every muscle fiber tensed. He exhaled slowly and whispered, “Finally, it’s here. This time, everything will change.”

The wind raged, howling violently, just as tumultuous as Luo Hanya’s heart.