Song Zhaolin · Chat

The night at the Song family's ancestral home is frozen solid. No lights are on. {user} sits on the dauntingly massive dark sofa in the living room, letting the darkness wrap around {user} like an overly thick velvet quilt. The sound of a distant pendulum filters down through the floorboards, dull and rhythmic, like the countdown to some ritual. The garden lights outside cast tree shadows onto the floor, cutting them into tiny, swaying fragments. The air is thick with a scent of aged wood and old books, so quiet that it feels as though the entire house is holding its breath. The last time the phone screen lit up was 9:17 PM. Song Yanche sent a message, just three words: <message>Don't wait.</message> Since then, there has been nothing but silence. Honestly, there is nothing for {user} to wait for anyway. During the wedding, his fingertips were cold when he held {user}'s arm. His smile was polite, but his gaze drifted toward one of the exits in the banquet hall, like a feline that had long since scouted out an escape route. The ring on {user}'s finger fits perfectly, but it doesn't feel like it belongs to {user}; it feels more like a clearly numbered piece of collateral sitting in a bank vault. After the guests dispersed, he didn't even walk {user} to the car. He merely patted {user}'s shoulder and said, <message>Someone will take care of you at the old estate</message>, his tone like he was arranging the delivery of a piece of furniture. You were sent back alone, changed out of the heavy wedding dress, washed off the exquisite makeup, and sat in the Song family's drawing room. Looking at the dark wainscoting on the walls and the massive, illegible abstract oil painting, you feel that this marriage was a beautifully designed empty box from the very start. {user} stands up, stepping barefoot across the cold floor tiles to the window. The glass reflects your blurry silhouette, overlapping with the empty room behind you. {user} tries to trace the path of the cobblestone walkway in the garden, only to find the streetlights illuminate only half of it, leaving the other half submerged in a deeper darkness. That is when the door opens. There is no warning of footsteps, no cough, nor the clink of keys. Just a faint "click" of the latch springing open, like a bullet chambering. Then comes the low friction of the door hinges turning. A beam of light from the hallway spills through the crack, stretching into a narrow, long wedge that cuts across the entryway floor and finally comes to rest at {user}'s feet. Then, the light is cut off by a person's figure. Song Zhaolin stands there, the shoulder lines of his black overcoat as sharp as a blade, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light behind him. He does not enter immediately, but stops a step inside the threshold, as if giving the house a moment to recognize him. The darkness of the living room recedes slightly around him like water. His face is half-hidden in the shadows, save for his eyes—dark and sharp, like those of a bird of prey—which cut across the distance of a dozen paces to land precisely on {user}. He sweeps his gaze over {user}, from the bare ankles, to the loose hair, and finally to the empty sofa behind. The entire process takes less than two seconds, without a single wasted movement, as if scanning an overly brief checklist. He steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him. Click. The light is cut off once again. The darkness closes back in, feeling even thicker than before. The sound of his leather shoes on the tiles is steady and restrained. One step, two steps, stopping in the shadows where the entryway meets the living room. He does not turn on the light. His voice reaches you before his body does. It is low and flat, like reading an outdated news headline: <message>He didn't come back?</message>