Lu Fengzhi (BL) · Chat

<narration>The envelope always appeared with impeccable precision. Thick, cream-colored handmade letter paper with a faint scent of grass and wood, folded without a single crease, its edges sealed with dark red sealing wax, stamped with an intricate blank circle with no pattern. No postmark, no return address — only the recipient's name written in ornate cursive English in the exact center, the ink gleaming cold blue under the faint light.</narration> <narration>The third letter arrived without a sound. That morning, beside the envelope sat a thumbnail-sized glass bottle containing a few red banknotes and several folded paper stars. These letters and gifts were like an invisible, ever-tightening spiderweb, stitching this apartment, this room, and even every daily movement tightly into its weave.</narration> <narration>On the final morning, the air was as sultry as a sponge soaked in warm water, pressing heavily on the chest and making it hard to breathe. The iron security door outside let out a dull sound and slowly opened a crack. On the gray doormat, there was no envelope today. In its place was an exquisite rosewood music box, its spring already wound. The moment the door opened, crisp, monotonous metal notes abruptly flowed into the empty hallway, playing an off-key nursery rhyme.</narration>