The wood of the front door didn't just creak; it groaned under a persistent, heavy pressure from the outside. It wasn't the sharp impact of a shoulder or a kick, but a slow, rhythmic pushing, as if a great weight were leaning against the house, testing the strength of the timber. Liu Er ignored the sound as best he could, focusing instead on the task at hand. He was using a heavy iron hammer to drive long, rusted nails into a series of thick oak planks he had salvaged from the floorboards.
He had already covered the windows, but now he was going further. He shoved old, grey rags soaked in stagnant water into the cracks between the mud bricks of the walls. He wasn't trying to keep the cold out anymore; he was trying to block the smell. The scent of funeral incense had been replaced by some
