## Chapter 1: A Ruined Midwinter, No Branch to Rest Upon
The midwinter wind, laden with ice-shard snowflakes, howled madly through this dead city ground to ruin by war. Lead-grey clouds hung so low they seemed to press against the tops of the broken walls and crumbled ramparts, suffocating the long-lifeless city in the bitter cold. The once bustling streets were gone without a trace—tall buildings blown in half, their exposed steel bars blackened and crumpled by artillery fire, sticking out of the wasteland like rigid, rotting skeletons, jumbled haphazardly. Low-rise civilian homes were reduced to half a mud wall each, pockmarked with countless bullet holes, eternal, unhealed wounds on the city. The wind whistled through them, a mournful wail, like the sighs of countless lost souls.
The air was forever thick with an indelible stench—a briny tang of dust, the acrid bitterness of Gun Smoke, and the putrid reek of frozen withered grass mixed with rotting debris, cold enough to pierce the lungs when inhaled. Under the overpass on the outskirts of the city, one of the few corners in the ruins that could barely block the wind, the inner walls of the underpass were stained with water and molds, the ground damp and frigid, never seeing the sun. This was where Ashe lived, a refugee who had lost all his past to the flames of war and wandered for more than a decade.
Ashe was not the name his parents had given him. His real name had long been buried in his hometown village, turned to scorched earth by bombs, along with his childhood and his family, all consumed by artillery fire. On the run, he survived by scavenging discarded scraps of food, by picking up tattered cloth and cardboard to keep warm. Fellow refugees had nicknamed him Ashe casually, and the name stuck, becoming the only one he would ever have. He was forty-three, yet looked like a man in his sixties, his back permanently hunched, crushed by hunger, cold and suffering. His face was crisscrossed with gully-like wrinkles, caked with dust and the marks of wind and frost. His hands were rough and cracked, his knuckles swollen and purplish—scars from years of enduring the cold and rummaging through refuse.
Ashe was completely illiterate. He had grown up in abject poverty; his parents were farmers who scratched a living from the soil. He had never set foot in a school or held a book, not even tasted a full meal. By the time he was seven, he had never touched a textbook or brush and ink. The only "word" he had ever known was the one his mother had traced stroke by stroke on his freezing, cracked palm as she sat on the kang: "Home". It was a word etched into his bones, fused into his blood, the only one he could ever recognize or write. Back then, his mother's fingers, rough from her homespun clothes yet warm and comforting, had stroked his palm over and over as she wrote: "Ashe, remember this word is Home. Where there is Mother, our adobe house, and hot food on the stove, that is home. No matter how far you go, home is your root."
That home, back then, was a true home. The adobe house was not spacious, but spotlessly clean. The yard was planted with sunflowers, Mother's favorite. The stove was always stoked with firewood, and the aroma of corn gruel and coarse grain cakes wafted through the air at every mealtime. Father toiled in the fields, Mother kept the house, and he played with mud by the kang. Life was poor, yet stable, with hope. Back then, Ashe did not know what war was, what displacement meant. He only knew that staying with his parents, in that adobe house, was the most secure life in the world. He kept the word "Home" in his heart, tracing it on his palm every night before bed. Mother said, remember this word, and you will remember the way home.
But that path home was broken forever when he was thirty.
The artillery fire rained down without warning, without premonition. First, the distant rumble, then explosions in the village sky. The roof of the adobe house shook, showering dirt and debris. Mother grabbed him and pulled him into her arms, shielding him tightly in the corner of the kang. Father had just rushed out the door to see what was happening when a stray bullet claimed his life. Ashe trembled in Mother's arms, listening to the cries and explosions outside, watching Father fall in the yard, watching their adobe house collapse in the artillery fire, watching Mother's tears drop on his head. In that moment, his world crumbled.
The road to escape was a throng of people, a cacophony of cries, screams and artillery fire—a living hell. Mother held his hand, running desperately out of the village, past fields strewn with corpses, past bombed-out hamlets. They chewed tree bark when hungry, drank muddy water when thirsty, and hid in dilapidated temples or caves at night. Mother still held his hand, tracing "Home" on his palm, telling him: "Ashe, don't be afraid. We're going to find home." But in a time of chaos, human life was as cheap as grass. Mother had always been frail, and the hunger, cold and fear of the journey finally laid her low. Three months into their flight, she fell gravely ill.
It was another snowy winter night. Mother lay in a freezing dilapidated temple, her breath faint. For the last time, she held his hand and traced "Home" on his palm. Her lips trembled, and she spoke only one sentence: "Find home. Live well." Then she closed her eyes forever. Ashe held Mother's cold body, crying until he had no voice left. Yet in the throng of refugees, there was not even a place to bury his loved one. He could only wrap her in tattered cloth, burying her hastily on a roadside slope, unable to erect even a simple tombstone—only remembering the rough location—before wandering on, alone.
And wander he did, for thirteen years.
In thirteen years, he had gone from a strong man to a haggard vagrant, walking through countless cities ravaged by war, seeing countless fellow refugees without a home to return to. Some starved to death by the roadside, some were swallowed by artillery fire, some grew completely numb, drifting through life in a stupor. He too had known numbness and despair, and more than once had wanted to throw himself into a river and end it all. But every time his fingers brushed his palm, and he remembered the word "Home" his mother had written, he forced himself to keep going. He dared not speak of home, dared not think of it. The mere thought of that word felt like an ice pick driven into his heart, a searing pain that left him gasping for breath. The agony of being homeless had clung to him for thirteen years like a vine, constricting him until he could barely breathe.
He finally settled under the overpass of this dead city. The underpass was drafty and damp, yet it could block the worst of the wind and snow. He spread scavenged cardboard and blackened cotton wadding on the ground; in the corner lay half a frozen hard black bread, a chipped broken porcelain bowl, and a scavenged rusty iron pipe—his walking stick, and his weapon for self-defense. These were all his possessions, the only corner in the world where he could lay his head for a moment. Yet he never dared call this place home. In his heart, without Mother, without the adobe house, there would never be a home.
## Chapter 2: Wasteland Scraps, Fragments of Civilization
This dead city, slaughtered by war, had long since broken free from the orbit of modern civilization—no electricity, no running water, no smoke from cooking fires, not even the semblance of social order. Occasionally, a handful of refugees passed through in a hurry, or workers tasked with clearing the ruins stayed for a short while. Everyone huddled into their own small, cold selves, hurrying on their way, no one willing to linger a moment longer in this land of lost souls. No one would lower their eyes to the huddled figure under the overpass—in the social order of the post-war world, war refugees like Ashe were nothing more than "discarded people", as worthless as the ruins and garbage, cast out from the civilized world, their lives and deaths unheeded by anyone.
Ashe's days were a mechanical cycle driven by the instinct to survive—no hope, no tomorrow, only a daily struggle to stay alive. At the first faint glimmer of dawn, when cold mist still clung to the broken walls, he would set out, leaning on his rusty iron pipe. The pipe was his walking stick, his weapon, his tool for rummaging through survival supplies, and his only connection to this cruel world. His world was forever confined to the ruins and garbage heaps—this was the dumping ground for the city's civilized refuse, the only source of livelihood for the homeless like him. Moldy bread crusts, rotting vegetable leaves, tattered cloth—all were treasures that could sustain life. In the face of hunger, dignity and decency had long since been ground to dust by the war.
The old military greatcoat he wore was scavenged from an unnamed refugee's body, worn thin to expose the cotton wadding inside, its cuffs and collar frayed to shreds. Yet he could not bear to throw it away—it was his only clothing to keep out the cold. Every time he went out, he wrapped the coat tightly around himself, his knuckles purple with cold, clutching the hem as if gripping the last thread of hope to live. He never spoke to anyone, dared not speak to anyone. He had seen too much human evil on the run, and after years of wandering, he had long grown used to being alone, to silence, to swallowing all his suffering in silence.
This was the cruel hidden destruction of war: it did not merely blow up houses and tear apart family ties, but shattered a person's social identity, reducing them to the most primitive state of survival. All the teachings of civilization, all sense of class belonging, all spiritual sustenance became distant, unattainable luxuries. Ashe's tattered military greatcoat, stripped from an unclaimed refugee's corpse, its fabric worn thin to transparency, its cotton wadding clumped and blackened, its cuffs and collar full of holes—yet he cherished it like a treasure. It was not merely clothing to keep out the cold, but the only barrier that could wrap his body and barely preserve his last shred of decency in this cold world. Every time he went out, he wrapped the coat tightly around himself, clutching the hem even as his knuckles turned purple with cold, as if gripping his remaining, worthless dignity. Thirteen years of wandering had sealed his heart, closing him off from all human contact. The intrigue and betrayal of war, the cold stares and expulsion of displacement, had long taught him the only rule of survival for the lowest of the discarded: silence and solitude.
That afternoon, the snowstorm that had raged all morning finally abated for a moment. A pale sun peeked through the thick clouds, casting a little light with no warmth at all, barely dispelling a trace of the cold. As usual, Ashe leaned on his rusty iron pipe, hobbling step by step to the garbage heap beside the ruins on the city's outskirts. This was the largest garbage heap in the area, a jumble of broken bricks and tiles, tattered cloth and cardboard, war-torn scrap, and old objects discarded by the city's former residents. The stench of rot and Gun Smoke mingled together, choking enough to make one cough. Yet for Ashe, this was the only place where he could find a way to live.
The blizzard that had raged all morning finally lost its ferocity that afternoon. A thin crack split the lead-grey clouds, and pale sunlight spilled down, cold and lifeless, barely dispelling the bone-piercing chill lingering among the ruins—yet it could not penetrate the desolation in human hearts. Ashe dragged his stiff legs, step by step, toward the largest garbage heap on the outskirts. The heap was like a scar on the dead city, piled high with abandoned military ordnance left by the war, broken daily necessities, discarded relics of civilization. The stench of decay, Gun Smoke and dust mixed into an acrid, suffocating miasma. Yet for Ashe, this was his only lifeline.
He bent his hunched back, prodding through the garbage heap little by little with his iron pipe. His fingertips were frozen stiff, every movement a stab of pain, yet he dared not stop—stopping meant going hungry. After more than half an hour of rummaging, he found only half a hard, dry corn bun and a thin piece of tattered cloth. He sighed, ready to turn back, when his fingertips suddenly touched a hard, cold object, buried deep under a thick layer of dust and shredded paper. Its texture was strange, nothing like ordinary scrap.
He hunched over, prodding the cold garbage with his iron pipe, his fingertips numb with cold, every bend a sharp pain. Yet he dared not pause—pausing meant hunger, meant freezing to death in the midwinter cold. Half an hour of rummaging yielded only half a corn bun, hard as stone, and a piece of tattered cloth thin as paper. This meager haul would not sustain him through the night's bitter cold. Ashe sighed, his eyes filled with numb despair, and turned to head back to the underpass. Then his fingertips brushed against a hard, cold foreign object, buried deep beneath dust and shredded paper, its texture utterly different from ordinary garbage and ruin fragments.
Ashe froze for a moment, then slowly squatted down, using his frozen, cracked hands to brush away the dust and paper bit by bit. A tattered, broken smartphone was revealed.
Ashe stared at the phone, his eyes filled with confusion and alienation. This object, a symbol of modern technology, information civilization, and normal life, was a completely foreign presence to him. He had grown up in such poverty that the only electrical appliance he had ever seen was an old radio, long since destroyed by artillery fire. On the run, he had seen people from peacetime holding such objects in the distance, chatting, finding their way, contacting their families—it was a scene from another world, a civilized life he could never reach in his lifetime. He and this phone, a man abandoned by war, an object abandoned by civilization, meeting in the garbage heap of the ruins—this in itself was a stark social metaphor: "When civilization collapses, all advanced creations are worthless compared to a mouthful of food to fill the stomach; when one's country is lost, no matter how convenient the technology, it cannot find a wanderer's way home".
Ashe slowly squatted down, his frozen, cracked hands covered in mud, brushing away the debris little by little. A tattered, broken smartphone was fully exposed to his gaze. This phone was a tiny microcosm of modern civilization, yet now it was nothing more than a discarded scrap, like the garbage around it. Its plastic casing was split into pieces, its edges covered in dents left by artillery fire and knocks, its screen crisscrossed with spiderweb-like cracks. The body was caked with thick dust and grime, clearly abandoned for a long time, lying silent in the snow and ruins for countless days and nights, a witness to the city's fall from prosperity to destruction.
The phone bore no trace of its former owner. Its casing was split apart, its edges pockmarked with dents from knocks and blows, its screen covered in spiderweb cracks, barely a complete picture visible. The body was caked with dust and grime, clearly discarded long ago, buried in the garbage heap for who knew how many days, beaten by snow and wind, covered in dust—long since become worthless trash. Ashe stared at the phone, his eyes full of confusion. He had never touched such an object in his life.
On an impulse, Ashe slipped the phone into his arms, pressing it against his cold chest. At first, he only thought he might trade it for a bowl of hot soup, a cup of hot water.
He had grown up in such poverty that the only electrical appliance in the house was an old radio, a gift from a relative. Then the artillery fire came, and everything was gone. On the run, he had seen wealthy city people holding such phones in the distance, talking, looking at things, finding their way—miraculous things. Yet he had never dared to approach, never understood how to use them. He stared at the phone for a long time, and on an impulse, slipped it into his arms, pressing it to his chest. Even though it was cold enough to pierce his bones, he thought maybe this thing could buy him a mouthful of hot food, even just a bowl of hot water—better than starving in the cold wind.
He lost all desire to rummage further. Clutching the broken phone, he hobbled slowly back to the underpass. The underpass was a little warmer than the outside, yet still cold and damp. He set the phone on his lap, using his frozen, cracked palms to brush away the loose dust little by little, his movements careful, as if handling a rare treasure. When he had cleaned the surface of dust, the phone's appearance became clearer—nothing special, just tattered and broken. Clutching a tiny flicker of hope, he pressed the side power button with a trembling hand.
He had thought this broken phone, discarded in the garbage heap, must be completely broken, unable to turn on at all. Yet to his surprise, the screen flickered to life weakly. The battery was down to the last red warning bar, the system lagged terribly, the screen flickered several times before it finally lit up properly. Most of the app icons did nothing when tapped—either crashing immediately or freezing the phone. Yet miraculously, the phone's built-in navigation app popped up on the screen, displaying the outline of the dead city on the map, blurry yet clear.
Ashe stared at the screen, completely dumbfounded. The screen was covered in dense symbols and small words, not a single one he could read—his eyes filled with confusion and helplessness. He was illiterate; he could not even operate a smartphone, could not read even the most basic words. Besides the word "Home" etched into his bones, he could not even write his own name, could not tell apart the words for man, woman, old or young. He clumsily prodded the screen with his thumb, his frozen finger unresponsive, each tap followed by a long lag. His heart was empty, yet filled with a strange, unnamable hope.
He had once heard an old beggar he had wandered with say that the navigation on a phone could mark places, show the way—no matter how far you went, as long as you typed in the place you wanted to go, it could show you the way back. The old beggar had said it was for people who missed home, to show them the way back.
'The way home.'
These four words struck his heart like a needle, tearing open the wound that had festered for thirteen years, a pain that made his whole body tremble.
## Chapter 3: One Word Worth a Thousand Gold, Only Thoughts of Home
Ashe stared at the blank input box at the top of the navigation screen, his gaze suddenly fixed. A glimmer of tears slowly welled up in his cloudy eyes. He did not understand what the box was for, yet he remembered the old beggar's words: to make the navigation show the way, you had to write the name of the place you wanted to go in this box.
Where could he go?
His hometown had long since been turned to scorched earth, his parents long dead. The world was vast, the seas boundless—he had no destination, no home to return to, not a single place he could call "Home". He had wandered for thirteen years, hidden for thirteen years, fled for thirteen years. No one had ever asked if he wanted to go home, no one had ever shown him a path back. Even he himself had dared not hope for a home in this lifetime.
Yet the obsession in his heart, like a volcano dormant for thirteen years, erupted completely at this moment.
His dry, cracked lips trembled incessantly, a hoarse gasp escaping his throat, unable to form a complete word—only a suppressed sob. He could not read other words, could not write other words. Even facing the countless words on the screen, he could not understand a single one. Yet he knew "Home", could write "Home". This word, his mother had traced on his palm countless times, he had traced in his heart countless times. For thirteen years, he had never forgotten it, never let it fade.
It was all his mother had left him—her only legacy, her only mark, his only root.
Tears spilled from Ashe's eyes first, sliding down his wrinkled cheeks, dropping onto the cold phone screen, smudging a small wet patch. He held his breath, summoning all his strength to steady his trembling hand, placing his frozen thumb gently in the blank input box. Following the shape engraved in his mind for half a lifetime, following the countless traces he had drawn on his palm, he wrote slowly on the screen, stroke by stroke, clumsily and crookedly.
A dot, a stroke, a hook, then the radical below. He wrote extremely slowly, extremely carefully. His frozen thumb would not obey him, slipping off course many times. Each time, he erased it and started over, repeating the process again and again, as if performing the most sacred, most important act of his life. The underpass was silent, save for his heavy breathing and the faint glow of the phone screen, illuminating his old, tear-streaked face.
He did not know how many times he wrote it, but finally the navigation app recognized the word.
On the screen, a square, clear word popped up—"Home".
The moment he saw the word, Ashe's hand jerked violently, nearly dropping the phone. He clutched it tightly, tears pouring down his face in a flood. The suppressed sobs he had held back for thirteen years finally burst from his throat, hoarse and mournful, echoing through the empty underpass. He knew this word—it was the one his mother had taught him, the only obsession of his life, the word he had searched for, thought of, yearned for, for thirteen long years.
Holding the phone as if holding his mother's hand, as if holding a lost legacy long gone, he slowly moved his body to the deepest corner of the underpass, leaning against the cold, damp concrete wall. He let the navigation's positioning lock precisely onto the spot where his feet stood. He did not understand positioning, did not understand marking a destination. He only knew that this drafty, cold, damp underpass was the only place where he could stay in peace for thirteen years, his only shelter in this dead city.
He wanted to mark this place as his home.
Even if this home had no trace of his mother's warmth, no smoke from a cooking stove, no the security of an adobe house—only the wind whistling through, moldy cotton wadding, and an inescapable loneliness. Even if this home was merely a crevice in the war-torn ruins, a corner scorned by the civilized world, a place not even worthy of being called a dwelling in the eyes of others. For Ashe, who had wandered for thirteen years, this was the first time he dared to bestow the name "Home" on a place to lay his head. It was the only illusion of "root" he could grasp, after the war had crushed all his sense of belonging.
This discarded phone, a microcosm of modern technology and normal social order, was meant for bright, lit homes, for hurrying passersby. Yet now it had fallen into the hands of an illiterate vagrant, forgotten by society—a stark, absurd contrast: civilization could create precise navigation, yet could not show the way home for the countless refugees in the war; technology could mark thousands of coordinates, yet could not hold a common person's most simple sense of belonging; society could build a complete order, yet could not accommodate a tiny shelter for a displaced person. Ashe did not understand these profound absurdities. He only knew that the square word "Home" on the screen was all his mother had left him, the entire reason he had clung to life for thirteen years.
His trembling fingertips pressed the confirm button for the mark. A bright red coordinate immediately popped up on the screen, nailed firmly to the position of the underpass, with the word he had etched into his bones hanging prominently beside it. Having done this, he felt as if all his strength had been drained from his body. Leaning against the wall, he held the phone tightly, his cloudy eyes fixed on the screen, fearing this was only a fleeting dream, fearing that if he closed his eyes, this hard-won "home" would disappear forever in the war and cold wind, like everything else in his past.
The red battery bar on the phone flickered more and more urgently, its faint glow wavering in the dim underpass—like a dying lone lamp, like Ashe's fading life. The pangs of hunger surged again in his stomach, the cold seeping into his bones, creeping into his heart. He knew he had to go out again to find something to eat, or he would not survive the long night. He struggled to his feet, tucking the phone tightly into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, pressing it to his chest—as if it were a charcoal fire to warm him, a god to save him.
Stepping out of the underpass, the snow and wind that had abated moments before returned with a vengeance, fiercer than that morning. The cold wind cut at his face like a knife, stinging his skin. The lead-grey sky sank completely, dusk falling. The ruins blurred into grim shapes in the snow and wind, the shadows of the broken walls clawing at the air, as if ready to swallow the last living things in the world. Ashe leaned on his rusty iron pipe, his steps unsteady. Thirteen years of hunger and cold had long since broken his body, and the emotional turmoil of the moment left him dizzy and disoriented. After walking less than fifty meters, he lost all sense of direction, trapped completely in the crevices of the ruins.
Panic seized him, an unprecedented fear clutching his heart. In this dead city, getting lost was a death sentence hanging over one's head—death by cold and hunger, by loneliness, by an unmarked end, all inevitable outcomes. He stumbled forward, groping his way, his soles crunching over broken bricks and unidentifiable dry bones. His foot slipped, and he fell heavily into the snow. A sharp stone gashed his palm, a bead of blood welling up, freezing the moment it touched the snow, a pain that wracked his entire body. He could no longer hold up his hunched back, only curl up beside the thin snowdrift, his teeth chattering, a broken murmur escaping his throat, repeating a single word over and over, soft as the wind yet heavy enough to crush thirteen years of endurance: "Home... Home..."
No answer came.
The broken walls were silent, the snow and wind were silent, the entire city, hollowed out by war, was silent. No helping hand passed by, no kind inquiry, not even a single extra glance fell on him. Vagrants like him were nothing more than the most insignificant specks of dust on this wasteland—born of mortal fires, buried in ruins, their passing unmarked and unremembered. The order of civilization had long since been shattered into powder by artillery fire; kindness and protection had long since become a luxury even more rare than a full meal. Only the faint glow of the phone in his arms remained, his only hope.
In his panic, he clutched his chest tightly, pulling out the cracked phone with trembling hands. His frozen thumb prodded the screen randomly, accidentally pressing the navigation start button. In an instant, a steady, emotionless electronic voice cut through the howling snow and wind, falling clearly on his ears:
"Routing to destination: Home. Distance from current location: 30 meters. Go straight, then turn left to arrive."
Ashe's body froze completely. All trembling, all sobbing, all struggle ceased in that moment.
He was illiterate, could not understand the complex words of the route plan, yet he heard that single word clearly—"Home".
Not the underpass, not a den, not a temporary crevice for the displaced. But a destination belonging to him, solemnly marked and clearly announced by this modern creation.
A discarded broken phone, a discarded vagrant—on the ruins of civilization, they completed an absurd yet gentle connection. Technology was born to bring convenience to the mortal world, navigation to guide those returning home. Yet war had crushed thousands of homes, turning countless people into adrift duckweed—instead, this cold machine caught the humblest obsession of a man from the bottom of society. No grand salvation, no impassioned cry—only this plain announcement, enough to outweigh thirteen years of wind and frost.
Tears finally burst forth, sliding down the deep crevices of his face, dropping into the snow and melting small pits. He did not cry out loud, only sobbed under his breath, his back relaxing little by little, as if unburdening himself of a weight he had carried for half a lifetime. Following the voice, he moved slowly forward, his fingertips scraping at the dirt on the ground, crawling step by step toward the underpass that could barely block the wind. Thirty meters—a negligible distance, yet it was the road home he had walked for thirteen long years.
The snow and wind still howled, yet the electronic voice remained steady, just like the soft instructions his mother had given him when she held his hand and walked with him all those years ago.
"You have arrived at your destination. You are home."
The moment the voice fell, Ashe finally dragged himself into the underpass, collapsing onto the pile of blackened cotton wadding. He pressed the phone tightly to his chest, the faint glow of the screen seeping through his tattered greatcoat, spreading against his heart—and miraculously dispelling the cold that had seeped into every part of him.
Days of hunger and cold, combined with the emotional upheaval, had drained the last of his strength. He slowly closed his eyes. In his mind, there were no ruins, no snow and wind, no the agony of displacement—only the warm adobe house of his childhood. Mother held his hand, tracing "Home" on his palm. The firewood in the stove crackled, the sunflowers in the yard turned toward the sun, Father's footsteps were steady and gentle. He felt as if he had curled up in Mother's arms again, warm and secure, quiet and peaceful, no disturbance, no suffering. And so he fell into a deep sleep.
His breathing slowed little by little, finally fading into stillness. He passed away without a struggle, his brows and eyes relaxed, a faint, relieved smile lingering on his lips—peacefully departing in this dream of home.
## Chapter 4: A Broken Phone as a Tombstone, Snow and Wind as a Memorial
The next day, the snow stopped. Pale morning light spilled over the ruins, gilding the broken walls and crumbled ramparts with a false warmth. A thin layer of snow covered the underpass, silent as if no living thing had ever touched it.
Two workers clearing the ruins sought shelter from the wind in the underpass, and their eyes immediately fell on Ashe, curled up in the cotton wadding. He lay in a sleeping posture, his hands folded over his chest, clutching the object in his arms tightly. His face was calm, utterly without the grief and wretchedness of a wanderer—instead, he looked as if he had finally found peace, fallen into a permanent sleep.
They were used to death in the wasteland, most of it hideous, miserable. Such a peaceful passing made them pause. They checked his breath—long gone. He had no possessions, only a cracked phone, clutched to his chest like a treasure.
One of them tapped the phone absently, and the screen lit up, the battery all but dead yet stubbornly glowing, frozen on the navigation page. A bright red coordinate was nailed to the center of the underpass, and beside it, one clear word stood out in the dim underpass—"Home".
No one asked his name, no one knew his past, no one knew he was illiterate, clinging to this single word for half his life. The two workers exchanged a glance, silently taking off the thick canvas they carried, draping it gently over his body. They did not move him further, did not ask any more questions.
The cracked phone remained in his arms forever. The word "Home" on the screen was his only identity, his only tombstone, his only home.
The wind blew over the overpass again, whistling through the underpass, a low mournful sound, like a sigh, like a whisper. The city still lay silent in the embers of war, countless displaced figures still wandered the four corners of the earth. No one would remember a vagrant named Ashe. Yet some obsessions always remain—hidden in the fragments of civilization, hidden in the crevices of snow and wind, a reminder to the world: a home is never a coordinate built of bricks and tiles, but an obsession etched into one's bones and blood, the most simple and unyielding light in a time of chaos.
And then, the underpass returned to silence, only the broken phone and the snow and wind left to guard this long-overdue homecoming.
This was the only word he could say, the only one he could recognize—the only cry for help in his despair. Yet in this empty ruin, no one answered. The aid of civilized society, the kindness of fellow humans, the protection of family—all had vanished the moment the artillery fire ignited. War refugees like him were never within the protection of social order; their lives and deaths were as insignificant as ants, unheeded by anyone. This was the cruel hidden sin of war: it not only destroys physical homes, but completely strips the most vulnerable of their survival guarantees, leaving individuals isolated and helpless in their suffering.
In his panic and helplessness, Ashe reached for his chest instinctively, pulling out the broken phone. His frozen thumb prodded the screen randomly, accidentally tapping the navigation's "Start Navigation" button. The next second, a mechanical, calm electronic voice, yet one with the power to cut through snow and wind, sounded slowly, falling clearly on his ears:
"Routing to destination: Home. Distance from current location: 30 meters. Go straight, then turn left to arrive."
Ashe's body froze in an instant. All trembling, all crying, all struggle came to an abrupt halt.
He was illiterate, could not understand complex phrases like "route planning" or "go straight then turn left", yet he heard that single word clearly—"Home".
Not the cold "underpass", not the contemptuous "vagrant's den", not the homeless "refuge crevice". But a place solemnly, clearly announced, recognized by modern technology—as home.
This was the first time in thirteen years of wandering that someone had "shown him the way" home; the first time since he became a discarded man that a place had been clearly defined as his belonging. Navigation, created by modern civilization for the convenience of life and for wandering souls returning home, had in a ruin of civilization fulfilled the humblest, most extreme desire of an illiterate refugee. It was the ultimate irony, and the most heart-wrenching tenderness: grand war and politics tear apart nations and homes, cold technology and order turn a blind eye to life, yet the most simple human obsession can always find a glimmer of light for itself in the ruins.
Tears blurred his vision in an instant. Ashe collapsed to the snow, crying out loud. His sobs were hoarse and desolate, thirteen years of grievance, suffering and longing erupting completely in this moment, echoing through the snow and wind, only to be swallowed by the cold wind moments later. He cried for his half a lifetime of displacement, for his parents' tragic death, for daring not even to think of home, for a world so vast that only a broken phone was willing to give him a home.
Following the navigation's voice, he crawled forward little by little. With every crawl, the navigation repeated the direction, just like his mother holding his hand all those years ago, leading him home step by step. Snowflakes beat against his face, mixing with his tears, cold enough to pierce his bones—yet his heart had never been so warm. Thirty meters—a negligible distance, yet for Ashe, it was the road home he had walked for thirteen years.
"You have arrived at your destination. You are home."
The moment the electronic voice fell, Ashe finally crawled to the mouth of the underpass. Summoning the last of his strength, he dragged himself inside, curling up in the pile of blackened cotton wadding, clutching the phone tightly to his chest. The faint glow of the screen pressed against his heart, warming his cold body.
Exhaustion and warmth washed over him together. He slowly closed his eyes. In his mind, there were no longer ruins, no snow and wind, no hunger—only the adobe house of his childhood. Mother sat on the kang, holding his small hand, tracing "Home" on his palm stroke by stroke. The firewood in the stove crackled, the sunflowers in the yard bloomed golden yellow. Father walked through the door, hoe over his shoulder, his laughter warm and gentle. He felt as if he had curled up in Mother's arms again, her palm patting his back softly, humming a gentle ballad. No artillery fire, no displacement, no hunger and cold—only peace, only warmth, only home.
A faint, relieved smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unshed tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. His breathing gradually slowed, finally fading to a whisper, then silence. Without pain, without struggle, he passed away peacefully in this beautiful dream of home, breaking free from thirteen years of suffering at last, truly returning to the home where Mother was, where warmth was, where his roots were.
## Chapter 5: A Broken Phone Bears a Word, Home Is Eternal
The next morning, the snow and wind had stopped. The dead city lay shrouded in a deathly still morning light, a thin layer of snow covering the underpass—white and clean, yet white and mournful.
Two workers tasked with clearing the ruins, wrapped in thick coats, sought shelter from the wind in the underpass. Their eyes immediately fell on Ashe, curled up in the cotton wadding. He lay in a sleeping posture, his hands folded over his chest, clutching the cracked phone tightly. His brows and eyes were relaxed, his face calm, utterly without the grief and wretchedness of a wanderer—as if he had merely fallen into a deep sleep, never having known the sufferings of the world.
The workers were used to dead bodies in the ruins, most contorted in agony, covered in filth. Such a peaceful passing was rare indeed. They stepped forward to check his breath—long gone. They sighed softly, and seeing him in rags, with no possessions, planned to handle him as an unnamed refugee, burying him hastily.
One of them touched the phone by accident, and the screen still glowed with the last flicker of light, not yet completely dead. The screen was frozen on the navigation page, a bright red coordinate nailed to the position of the underpass, and beside it, one clear word stood out, stark and piercing—"Home".
The workers froze for a moment, then silently withdrew their hands. No one knew the vagrant's name, no one knew his past, no one knew he was illiterate, able to recognize only this single word. No one knew he had endured for thirteen years, yearned for thirteen years, for this one word.
They did not move him, only took the thick canvas they had brought and draped it gently over his body—granting this unnamed refugee his last shred of decency.
The cracked phone remained on his chest, the word "Home" on the screen his only tombstone, his only identity, his only home.
This dead city still stands, the scars of war never fading. Countless refugees like Ashe still wander, searching for the direction of home. Modern civilization marches on, technology growing ever more precise. Yet there are always some roads home that navigation cannot guide; there are always some homes that bricks and tiles cannot build. A home is never a physical coordinate, never a building. It is an obsession engraved in the heart, a warmth in the blood, a destination one is willing to rush toward in a time of chaos, even if only a glimmer of light remains.
Ashe is gone, taking with him the only word he could recognize, returning to his home. Yet in these ruins, the obsession with home, the reflection on suffering, remain forever in that broken phone, in the depths of every homeless soul.