When Chen Yan was ten years old, it snowed longer than usual.
Wrapped in a thick cotton jacket sewn by his grandma, he squatted next to the stone mill in the corner of the courtyard, his fingertips poking at the dark red traces in the cracks of the millstone—the blood spattered when his grandfather chopped the golden-red snake to death with a hatchet three days ago. It has been snowing for three days, but the blood has not frozen. Instead, it seems to have seeped into the stone, and the fingertips feel warm and sticky.
"Yanba, come inside and warm yourself by the fire." Grandpa's voice came from the main room, with the characteristic hoarseness of an old smoker. He is a silent old hunter who always goes into the mountains with a shotgun on his back in the spring. But for the past three days, he has leaned the barrel of his gun against the wall, a thin layer of snow has fallen, and he always sits on the threshold, staring at the bamboo forest outside the courtyard gate in a daze.
Chen Yan didn't move. He always thought of that little snake. When Grandpa stuffed it into the bamboo cage, its golden-red scales shone like broken gold in the sun. It spat out letters and rubbed against the back of his hand. It was not vicious at all. But early the next morning, there was a gap in the bottom of the bamboo cage. The little snake curled up under the millstone and was split into two pieces by Grandpa's hatchet. At that time, he was hiding behind a pile of firewood and saw his grandfather wiping the blood on the knife with straw paper. Once the straw paper was stained with blood, it turned black, as if it had been stained by ink.
"That's the seed of worms. It eats the chickens and cannot keep them." Grandpa said at that time, but he didn't see a pair of amber eyes staring at the back of his neck in the pile of firewood.
At night, Chen Yan began to have nightmares.
In my dreams, there is always a big golden-red snake that is thicker than the beam, crawling out from under the bed, its scales scraping against the floor, making a rustling sound like falling snow. Its letter swept across his face, carrying a fishy smell, and its fangs pressed against his throat, but did not bite, just hanging there, forcing him to look at the blood marks on the millstone. Every time
