Wissky Town is a small place surrounded by mountains, with access primarily via a single highway. Years ago, when a powerful typhoon hit, several remote county roads were cut off.

However, the area still had handmade paper industries left over from the Japanese colonial era, which often attracted many foreign tourists who came by chartered buses for sightseeing.

Wissky Town may be off the beaten path, but the locals don’t live in the past. Over time, a few high-tech companies set up factories here, slowly transforming the town into a lively mountain hub.

Lizi, an outsider, moved to Wissky Town to settle down with her husband. Back when she was a student, she was vocal about feminism, never imagining she would marry before turning thirty and become a housewife who followed her husband’s lead.

Luckily, she didn’t have a traditionalist mother-in-law. The couple only needed to visit occasionally, exchange pleasantries, and keep the elderly parents happy.

The only thing that might earn them a few nagging words was their lack of children. However, being newlyweds, the pressure to continue the family line wasn’t too heavy for Lizi. Moreover, her busy husband always loved to engage in intimate moments as soon as he came home, and they never actively avoided contraception.

The seemingly ordinary life was something Lizi cherished for its sense of stability. Although she had once been mocked by her classmates for her contradictory words and actions, her husband always treated her as a charming woman, passionately seeking her love. Lizi often thought: Even if he had an affair, she would probably forgive him.

If she had to compare herself to something, she would say she was like the soil, allowing her husband to comfortably plant his roots—this was what her husband said. She had once teased him, saying that a chemical engineer would say such poetic things!

Without any romantic relationship, she quickly got engaged, and the major event in her life went so smoothly that Lizi herself found it strange.

She wasn’t the type of woman to overthink. When her husband was transferred to Wissky Town as the department head of a branch company, she briefly worried about whether they would be stuck in a remote town. Thankfully, Wissky Town turned out to be unexpectedly prosperous.

While her husband worked, Lizi began to explore her new environment.

She happened to buy some exquisite dyed mulberry paper from a local craft shop while shopping, and, already fond of paper sculpture, she quickly grew fond of the lively yet green mountain town.

She also met many wealthy housewives who had moved here with their husbands, and compared to them, she was the youngest, with a natural humility and modesty. Her sweet and charming personality quickly helped her integrate into social circles.

A year passed in the blink of an eye, and Lizi visited the local obstetrics and gynecology clinic because her period hadn’t come. The doctor informed her that she was pregnant.

Her husband was ecstatic and immediately called their friends and family to share the news. The elderly parents were also very pleased with their daughter-in-law’s healthy pregnancy, believing that the serene environment of Wissky Town was perfect for raising a child. They not only encouraged her to stay put and rest but also sent her a huge amount of expensive supplements.

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This marriage turned out to be a good match. Fortunately, her husband wasn’t like most men in romantic relationships, who would run away faster than a jet at the mention of pregnancy. She liked children and hoped her husband was ready to raise a child that belonged to both of them.

Lizi thought she was the type of wife who could help her husband advance in his career. He had become busier, often traveling for work and returning late.

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Lizi poured herself a cup of boiled, sweet spring water and drank it with her head tilted back.

Since becoming pregnant, Lizi, who had never liked plain water, suddenly found beverages unhealthy and developed a liking for the mountain spring water sold by local tea farmers. Her husband always found time to drive two hours through the mountains to buy the water. She naturally liked the feeling of being pampered.

The phone rang, and the sound was unnervingly loud in the quiet house. Startled, Lizi let go, and the half-filled glass shattered on the floor, making a sharp noise. She cursed a few words and carefully stepped around the shards to answer the phone.

It was another silent prank call.

Lizi hung up the phone and suddenly felt annoyed.

There was a stalker who always called when her husband wasn’t home to harass her. Only people from the same company could do that, and the most likely suspect was Zhang from the development department, Lizi had occasionally helped deliver things to her husband’s office and always Zhang gave her a lecherous look, even attempting to touch her several times.

A cowardly pervert.

After confirming the safety of the doors and windows, Lizi curled up on the couch, running a comb through her long hair absentmindedly. She was confident in her fair and full appearance. She always looked lazy and relaxed like this, and her husband would often burn with desire when he saw her.

As she combed her hair, the term "self-combing" crossed her mind. She had once used the traditional custom of "self-combing" in Guangdong as a topic for a feminist report. The literal meaning was similar to what she was doing now, but the actual content was vastly different.

It was a somewhat cruel and passive custom. Unmarried girls would have long braids, and when they married, their mother or an elder woman would style their hair into a bun, signifying their transition from girlhood to womanhood. "Self-combing" referred to a specific ritual in which, in the house of an aunt, the girl would bathe in a fragrant herbal bath made from cypress and yellow-leafed plants, and a close female friend, already with her hair styled, would teach her about the independent life after the "self-combing" ceremony. They would then burn incense to honor the gods and change into new clothes, undo their hair, and style themselves as a woman, announcing their decision to remain single for life.

Afterward, the self-combed woman would return home to inform her parents and relatives of her decision, distributing offerings to friends and family.

Once the ceremony was completed, even the parents could no longer force her to marry. But it was an irreversible ritual, and it didn’t mean full freedom. If the self-combed woman behaved inappropriately, she would still be punished, sometimes severely. If she died, her body couldn’t be buried in her family’s grave; instead, it would be hastily buried by a close friend or, if no such friend existed, by the villagers, who might even toss the body into the water.

At that time, among the women who used sericulture as a means of independence, many escaped human trafficking disguised as marriage through the self-combing ceremony.

To think that such a tradition, where a woman's life could be governed by her hair, was hard to believe for modern women like Lizi.

Holding her beautiful, dark hair, mixed with a few strands of barely visible golden light, Lizi remembered how, as a child, she had heard the elders praise "golden silk hair, a prosperous future." She couldn’t bear to pull out the few light strands of hair that might turn white. She wasn’t superstitious, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit proud as she continued combing.

If given the chance, what woman wouldn’t want to marry a good man and live as a young lady?

Zhang, her husband's subordinate, whose lustful desires remained unfulfilled and who was stuck with a dead-end job and meager salary, appeared to Lizi as nothing more than a dog salivating. Lizi smirked disdainfully at the now-silent phone.

She felt an itch on her thigh and scratched it a few times, peeling off some white flakes of skin, leaving red scratch marks.

She had been taking good care of her skin, so why was it so dry now? The glass from the broken cup in the kitchen still hadn't been cleaned up. Feeling anxious, Lizi tried to distract herself by turning on the TV. The news anchor’s lips moved like those of a fish, but she heard nothing. She was subconsciously focused on the scratch marks on her leg.

The itch persisted, teasing her, and she found herself scratching it again, slapping her disobedient hand with her right hand, feeling childish.

She pressed the itching spot gently, feeling the skin lose its elasticity. It had already broken. She sighed, thinking, "I’ll go to the pharmacy tomorrow and buy some ointment for skin conditions."

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A week later, the prescription the doctor gave her didn’t work. The small itchy area, originally the size of a ten-dollar coin, had spread to the size of a palm, turning a dark red like a birthmark, and itched unbearably.

She warned herself not to scratch it, but her hand moved involuntarily, dragging her nails across the red patch, which caused darker lines to appear, giving her a sense of satisfaction, as if she were taking revenge on the itch.

Lizi scratched like a drug addict in withdrawal, unable to stop, until her beautiful eyes widened in horror. The skin around the wound began to swell, and greenish pus oozed from the broken, swollen tissue. She screamed in terror.

That day, screams echoed through Wissky Town, not just from one place.