“Marcus? Marcus! What kind of nightmare are you having? Come on, wake up!”

Marcus Allen was still trapped in that deep, choking sadness when someone shook his shoulder hard. His eyes flew open, breath catching in his throat.

Right beside him sat his big brother, Skye Allen, reeking of liquor, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy as he chuckled at him.

“What were you dreaming about, huh? How come you’re crying?”

Crying? Me?

Marcus blinked, pushed himself upright, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Sure enough, his cheeks were wet. Those really were his tears.

What… what exactly had he dreamed?

He rubbed his temples, and the scenes from the dream started lining up one after another.

He’d dreamed his wife and daughter were gone—just gone. Only after losing them did he finally realize how much they meant to him. After that, he’d lived with a guilt that ate him alive, turned himself into some cold, joyless money‑making machine. He became this big‑shot tycoon known all over the country, yet had no one around him. Just him, alone, drowning in regret for over forty years… until he died in a hospital bed, still filled with remorse.

The thought sent a sharp chill through him. He jerked upright and looked around, his eyes catching on the calendar at the head of the bed: June 3, 1986.

His face instantly drained of color.

“Big brother, where are Wanda and Serena?”

Before Skye Allen could answer, Yvonne Morrison lifted the curtain and stepped inside. She tossed him a wet towel and let out a cold snort, scolding without holding back.

“So you finally remember Wanda? Didn’t you just yell at her and drive her out? Honestly, what’s wrong with that temper of yours? She stops you from drinking because she cares about you! Wanda’s a beauty, has a soft temper, and look at Serena—she’s sweet and pretty as a doll thanks to her. You won’t find a better wife within ten miles! You don’t treasure her, fine, but you still treat her like she owes you. Just wait!”

"You’ll regret this day, just you wait!"

Hearing that, Marcus Allen felt his heart drop. One glance at the dark sky outside was enough to jolt him sober. He didn’t even bother with his shoes. In a flash, he jumped off the kang and bolted for the door.

Yvonne Morrison was startled by how frantic he looked. She grabbed the shoes by the stove and hurried after him, calling out as she ran, "What’s going on with you? At least put your shoes on!"

Marcus had drunk quite a bit before lying down, and now his head throbbed like a drum. His steps were unsteady, but he didn’t dare waste even a second.

Because in that nightmare, on this very day, after he drove his wife and daughter out with harsh words, they died in a car accident on their way back to East Village.

From then on, they were gone forever.

Mr. Allen was sitting in the yard smoking his dry tobacco pipe. When he saw his youngest son charging out barefoot, staggering all over the place, his brows knotted instantly. He stood up and grabbed Marcus by the wrist.

"What’s wrong with you? Had too much and now you’re acting crazy?"

Marcus, desperate to chase after his wife and daughter, clutched his father’s hand tight. "Dad! Did you see Wanda Armstrong and Serena? Did they go back to East Village?"

Mr. Allen took a long drag on his pipe and shot him a hard look.

"Humph! Now you remember you have a wife and kid?"

The old man just kept scolding and didn’t say where they went.

Marcus’s chest tightened with panic. Before he could press further, Yvonne Morrison caught up. She tossed the shoes at his feet and, breathing heavily, said, "Put your shoes on first. They left a while ago. By now they’re probably already in East Village."

That sentence sent a chill through Marcus’s bones. The memory of their cold bodies in the morgue flashed before his eyes. His expression changed sharply. Ignoring the shoes again, he spun around and sprinted out of the yard.

"Hey! Hey! Marcus! Where are you going? At least wear your shoes—"

"Leave him be!"

Mr. Allen cut off his eldest daughter‑in‑law, glaring in frustration at the direction his youngest son had run, grumbling under his breath.

"Good-for-nothing brat, all you know is yelling at your wife and kid! Useless bastard! If you wanna die somewhere, just go die already!"

Yvonne Morrison heard Mr. Allen cursing, every word harsher than the last, and couldn’t help shaking her head. The old man was so mad he was scolding even himself in the mix. She let out a quiet sigh in her heart, thinking:

No wonder he’s furious. This little brother-in-law really is hopeless. Twenty‑three already and still no proper job—either drunk or fighting every other day. Poor Wanda Armstrong and little Serena… what a life they’ve had to bear.

Night had fully settled in by now, and Marcus Allen was cutting through the darkness at a dead sprint.

Xiaohe Village wasn’t far from East Village, where Wanda’s family lived—five, maybe six li. A quick half hour on foot if you kept your pace.

The two villages sat along the same provincial road. It was still a dirt road back then, but being the main route for hauling goods, big trucks rumbled through often enough to flatten it out.

Marcus burst out of Xiaohe Village and onto the provincial road, running full tilt toward East Village, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Wanda! Serena!"

Rural nights were always quiet. His voice echoed a few times and instantly set off a chain reaction—the dogs across the village started barking like mad, and folks in Xiaohe Village began hollering complaints in return.

Mr. Brunton, the fish seller, stepped out of his house. He tilted his head, caught the voice, and grumbled with his hands on his hips, "What’s Marcus Allen up to now? Yelling like a lunatic in the middle of the night!"

His wife jumped at the noise and rushed after him, tugging at his sleeve. "Keep your voice down! If any of his little cronies hear you, they’ll be here tomorrow stirring up trouble again."

"He wouldn’t dare!"

Mr. Brunton spat on the ground.

His wife pinched him hard. "What’s something Marcus wouldn’t dare? Did you forget how he chased Mr. Brant down the road with a kitchen knife? Don’t act tough out here—get back inside!"

…

Marcus knew nothing about the gossip flaring up behind him.

He didn’t dare slow down. With every step he took closer to the stretch of road from his nightmare, a cold dread crept deeper into his chest.

The nightmare had felt so real that Marcus Allen still wasn’t sure whether it was just a dream or something he had actually lived through—something so full of regret that it dragged him back for another chance.

If all of it was true, would he make it in time this go‑round?

Or would he still end up staring at two cold bodies on the ground?

That thought made him pick up his pace again.

The truth was, he hadn’t married Wanda Armstrong out of affection.

Their grandfathers had fought side by side back in the war, the kind of bond that came from sharing foxholes and dodging bullets.

After the liberation, the two old men made a pact: the third child of each family would marry once they came of age.

So growing up, Marcus had always assumed that Helena Bridges, the Armstrong family’s third daughter, would be his future wife.

But that girl had her own path—smart as a whip, got into college, became a proper teacher.

Naturally she had no interest in Marcus, a broke troublemaker with nothing going for him.

When she came of age, she found herself a steady factory worker, fell in love, and soon moved to the city to get married.

That hit Marcus hard. He’d stormed over to the Armstrong house with a stick in hand, demanding an explanation.

But Mr. Armstrong had passed away long before, and the family didn’t want to go back on their word. So the father made the decision to marry their youngest daughter, Wanda, to Marcus.

Wanda, though the prettiest among the four Armstrong girls, was born mute, unable to speak a word. Marcus didn’t like that one bit.

But the Allen family was dirt‑poor, and Marcus himself had no schooling, no steady job, just drifted around the streets all day. Not a single family in the area was willing to give their daughter to him.

Afraid their third son would lose even the Armstrongs and end up with no wife at all, Mr. and Mrs. Allen simply made the decision for him and brought Wanda home.

Marcus was stubborn. It wasn’t that he was deeply in love with Helena, but he felt humiliated—felt the Armstrongs had played him for a fool.

So ever since the wedding, he’d never shown Wanda a kind face. Nearly four years of marriage had been nothing but yelling or sarcastic digs.

But Wanda—soft‑tempered as she was—never fought back, no matter how cold he was to her. She just quietly did what a wife was supposed to do.

She kept the house spotless, and their daughter Serena was always clean, sweet, and well‑behaved under her care.

Thinking of that, Marcus slapped himself hard. The pain of losing his wife and child in that dream, the regret that clawed at him—he could feel it all over again. His fists tightened.

He lifted his head and shouted once more. Only the faint chirping of insects answered back.

When Marcus, pale and out of breath, reached the stretch of road from his dream and saw it completely empty, he almost collapsed with relief.

No accident. The dream must’ve been fake.

Just as he finally exhaled—

A sudden rustling burst from the cornfield beside the road, the sound of something—or someone—moving inside.