Mei Rou sat in her family's spacious hut, gently rocking her newborn son while watching her husband sharpen his blade on a whetstone. The rhythmic scraping sound filled the air as golden afternoon light filtered through gaps in the bamboo walls. The familiar scent of her mother's cooking wafted from the corner where the elderly woman stirred a pot over the fire, humming an old lullaby.
"Almost ready, dear," her mother called out with a warm smile. "Your favorite mutton soup."
Mei Rou nodded absently, focused on her baby's face. Something felt wrong. The infant's cheeks appeared hollower than yesterday, his tiny frame lighter in her arms. When she adjusted her grip, the baby began wailing - a thin, reedy cry unlike his usual robust sounds.
"Dear?" She turned toward her husband, worry creeping into her voice. "I think something's wrong with him."
