"Xiao Yao!
Wake up, or you'll be late, and Sir will nag again!"
The voice rang in Shi Yao's ears, startling him awake. He squinted; his mind still foggy with sleep.
Who is it? he wondered groggily. I told Aunt not to call me that anymore.
Blinking against the morning light streaming through an unfamiliar window, he saw an old lady with a kind, gentle smile arranging a neatly pressed shirt on the bed. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, folding and smoothing with care, as though this was her daily routine.
Shi Yao sat up, dazed and confused. "Who…" he began, but the words trailed off as he looked around.
The room wasn't his.
The walls were painted a soft cream, adorned with framed photographs of unfamiliar faces. A wooden desk sat by the window, cluttered with books, papers, and what appeared to be a small potted plant.
The bed he'd been lying on was neatly made with a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. The air felt warm and inviting, yet nothing about this place struck a chord of recognition.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the old lady clapped her hands briskly. "Come on, Xiao Yao! Don't just sit there daydreaming. Get to the washroom and freshen up—breakfast won't wait for you, and neither will Sir!"
"Wait, I—" Shi Yao tried to speak, but the lady gently but firmly ushered him out of bed. She nudged him toward a small door on the other side of the room, leaving him no chance to protest. "Go on now, hurry!" she said, her voice carrying a warmth that somehow felt both unfamiliar and comforting.
After his shower, Shi Yao returned to the room to find it empty. The old lady had left, but the shirt she had prepared lay neatly on the bed. As he got dressed, his thoughts raced. Where am I? Did the owner of that strange house bring me here? Did I pass out or get injured? He touched his arms and shoulders, searching for bruises or cuts, but found none. Everything about him felt intact.
That's when his eyes fell on the book.
It was lying on the desk, its leather cover unmistakable. "Hmm? Is this the book I grabbed when I fell?" he murmured, stepping closer. The symbols on the cover glimmered faintly in the morning light, and a subtle warmth seemed to emanate from it.
Curiosity burned in him, and he reached out. As his fingers brushed the surface, the air seemed to hum softly, like the resonance of a distant bell. He opened the cover slightly, only for his thoughts to be interrupted by the return of the old lady.
"Xiao Yao!" she exclaimed, bustling into the room with a flurry of activity. "You're still not ready? Hurry up! Sir is waiting, and he's losing his temper! Your class teacher called yesterday to complain about you being late again—do you want another lecture from him?"
Shi Yao froze, completely thrown off by her words. "Class teacher?" he echoed under his breath.
"Don't just stand there gawking," she continued, tugging the shirt straight on his shoulders. "And take that book with you—it's always in your hands anyway. Here, wear this!" She handed him a satchel, her tone urgent but not unkind.
Still confused, Shi Yao allowed her to herd him out of the room. As they moved down a creaking wooden staircase, his eyes caught the reflection of a mirror hanging on the wall.
He stopped abruptly. "This…?" he muttered, stepping closer to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, but something was off. His face was the same—familiar, unscarred—but his height… His shoulders barely reached where he'd expect them to.
"I look… shorter?" he whispered, his brow furrowing. His hand reached out to touch the glass, but the old lady's voice cut in again.
"Xiao Yao! Stop staring at yourself and come on! Sir won't wait forever!" She waved impatiently from the bottom of the stairs.
Shi Yao turned away from the mirror, unease settling in his stomach. What's going on here? he thought as he followed her down. And why does everything feel so… off?