Sold into a ghost marriage? Four-year-old and his thuggish father go on a killing spree.

"Put the red dress on her. The Wang family is urging us to get her there before dark!"

Grandma Zhao's voice was as sharp as a knife, cutting through the twilight of the 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month.

Four-and-a-half-year-old Gu Niannian was pulled up from the kang (a heated brick bed) by two rough, large hands, her head buzzing.

Before she had fully recovered from the delirium of her high fever, her patched cotton-padded coat was stripped off.

A bright red wedding dress was draped over her head, the cool silk clinging to her thin, bony body.

"Grandma..." Niannian's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, "Where's Mommy? I'm looking for Mommy..."

Zhao paused for a moment, then pulled the wedding dress onto her body with even more force.

"Your mother is dead! She passed away three days ago! Don't you remember?"

Nian Nian froze.

Of course she hadn't forgotten.

Three nights ago, in this drafty mud-brick house, Song Wanqing coughed up her last mouthful of blood.

The blood splattered on Niannian's little hands, warm and sticky, then quickly cooled down.

With her last bit of strength, her mother gripped her hand and slipped a folded piece of paper into her close-fitting cotton-padded jacket.

"Nian Nian...remember...go find your father...Chengjiawan...Gu Yanqiu..."

Then Mom's hand loosened, like a withered leaf falling from a branch, unable to hold onto anything anymore.

Niannian didn't cry.

It's not that I don't want to cry, it's that I can't cry.

At four and a half years old, she had already learned one thing—crying was useless in this family.

Crying will only earn you a slap from Zhao and sarcastic remarks from your second aunt, Liu Cuihua.

"You brat, stand up straight! Tidy your hair up, don't look like a little devil!"

Zhao squatted down and used a broken wooden comb to forcefully pull at Niannian's tangled hair.

Niannian gasped in pain, but bit her lip and didn't utter a sound.

Her gaze passed over Zhao's shoulder and fell upon two strangers standing in the main room.

One was an old woman with a face full of scars, wearing a black headscarf, chewing on a pipe, her eyes looking at her as if she were sizing up a piece of livestock.

The other was a middle-aged man with a limp, holding a blue cloth bundle in his arms. The bundle was square in shape—it contained money.

Although Niannian is young, she can recognize what people look in their eyes when they look at her.

The old woman looked at her with the same way a butcher looks at a pig at the market.

"Aunt Zhao, this girl is too thin, but she's quite pretty." The old woman spoke, her voice hoarse. "Two hundred yuan, not a penny less. This is for my husband Da Chui to get married. Things in the underworld can't be taken lightly."

Two hundred yuan.

In December of 1964, a strong laborer could earn less than sixty yuan in cash after a year's work in the production team.

Two hundred yuan is enough for the Zhao family to eat white flour steamed buns for two years.

When Niannian heard the words "underworld," her small body trembled violently.

She didn't fully understand what a ghost marriage was, but she had seen it.

Last year, after the mute girl from the east end of the village died, she was dug out of her coffin and stuffed into another coffin, where she lay down next to a man who had drowned in a neighboring village.

The adults said that it was called "ghost marriage," which meant finding a wife for the dead.

But she didn't die.

An unprecedented fear surged up from the soles of my feet, and the hairs on my body stood on end.

"Grandma!" Niannian grabbed Zhao's sleeve suddenly. "I'm not dead! I'm still alive! You can't give me to a dead person—"

Zhao slapped her across the face.

A crisp sound rang out in the room, and Niannian's face instantly swelled up on one side.

"Why are you hitting me? Don't smear my face, it won't look good!" Old Mrs. Wang frowned.

Madam Zhao smiled apologetically, "It's alright, it's alright, this brat is just being silly—"

She lowered her voice and leaned close to Niannian's ear, her tone cold and ruthless: "You're the one who killed your mother, you jinx! Why keep you around to bring misfortune to our Zhao family if we don't marry you off? Your second uncle's son broke his leg last month, and that was because of you!"

Niannian covered her burning face, her eyes red-rimmed, but she didn't shed a single tear.

She stared intently into Zhao's eyes, but there wasn't a trace of pity in those cloudy old eyes.

Greed and calculation only arise when counting money.

This is her maternal grandmother.

Her mother's biological mother.

At that moment, Niannian suddenly understood something—why her mother didn't let her go to her maternal grandmother before she died, but instead made her go to find a "father" she had never met.

Because in her grandmother's eyes, she wasn't a person, but something that could be exchanged for money.

It was completely dark.

The Wang family's oxcart was parked at the door, with a black coffin on the cart.

The coffin wasn't large; it was a size specifically designed for children, but to a four-year-old, it looked like a monster with its mouth agape.

The north wind whipped up snowflakes that stung their faces as Niannian was flanked by Zhao Shi and Liu Cuihua, who pushed her toward the oxcart.

"Be good, just lie down and take a nap, it won't hurt," Liu Cuihua coaxed insincerely.

Niannian saw what was inside the coffin and suddenly stopped in her tracks.

There was a person lying in the coffin.

A man who has been dead for three days.

Wang Dachui, 32 years old, had been paralyzed for ten years and passed away three days ago.

His face was bluish-gray, his lips were black, his eye sockets were deeply sunken, and his cheekbones protruded high.

The stench of decay wafted from the coffin, mixed with the smell of lime powder and cheap incense, and went straight into Niannian's nose.

Niannian's stomach churned violently, and she began to gag intensely.

"Hurry up, hurry up, stop dawdling!" Old Mrs. Wang urged impatiently.

Zhao and Liu each grabbed one of Niannian's arms and shoved her into the coffin.

"No—!" Niannian struggled desperately, her small body bursting with amazing strength, kicking Liu Cuihua in the stomach.

Liu Cuihua winced in pain and released her grip, cursing, "You little brat!"

But Zhao didn't let go. Her thick arms gripped Niannian's waist like iron clamps, and she forcefully pressed her into the coffin.

Niannian's back touched Wang Dachui's cold, stiff arm; the sensation was like being coiled by a dead snake.

She screamed.

This was the first time in her life—or rather, in her short four and a half years of life—that she had ever screamed like that.

"Mommy—! Mommy—!"

No one answered her.

My mother is dead. Three days ago, on that snowy night, she died in this dilapidated house where even the heated brick bed couldn't be heated, with blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes.

The coffin lid was lifted.

Grandma Wang personally pressed down on Niannian's head and forced her face towards Wang Dachui's shoulder.

"Rules can't be broken; face-to-face interaction is what counts."

Niannian smelled the sweet, rotten odor emanating from the dead body, and her stomach churned.

The black coffin lid slowly slid down.

The light gradually disappeared.

Niannian's vision went from dim to pitch black.

thump.

The coffin lid was closed.

Utter darkness.

Completely enclosed.

The air was filled with the smell of death and the pungent odor of lime powder.

Niannian lay on the coffin lid, trembling all over.

Her fingers frantically dug at the coffin lid, her fingernails curling up.

Warm blood seeped from her fingertips, but she felt no pain.

All she knew was that if she didn't get out, she would die here.

She and this stranger who had been dead for three days were buried in the ground together, never to come out again.

"Mom..." her voice echoed muffledly from the coffin, "Mom, you said... I should go find Dad..."

Chengjiawan.

Gu Yanqiu.

These two words were like two nails, firmly embedded in her mind.

She cannot die here.

She wants to go out.

She's going to find her father.

Niannian gritted her teeth, curled up, braced her feet against the bottom of the coffin, and held the coffin lid firmly with her hands.

She heard people outside talking, laughing, and drinking to celebrate.

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Nian Nian used all her strength to push upwards.

The coffin lid remained completely still.

She changed her position, pushed Wang Dachui's stiff arm to the side, lay on her back, and used her shoulders and hands to exert force at the same time.

creak-

The coffin lid shifted slightly.

A gust of cold wind blew in through the crack, carrying the scent of snow—the scent of life.

Niannian seemed to have grasped at the last straw, desperately pushing upwards.

creak- creak-

The gap is getting bigger and bigger.

She stuck her little finger in, gripped the edge, and pushed it to the side with all her might.

The coffin lid is crooked.

A sliver of hazy sunlight peeked in.

Niannian saw the snowflakes fluttering outside.

She is still alive.

From the lit room in the Wang family courtyard came the sound of bowls clinking and muffled laughter.

No one noticed that the "little bride" in the coffin was using her bloodied hands to open her own grave.