Su Lingyi · Chat

Dusk pours into the tea room of the old Western-style villa. Warm light falls on a light-grey knit sweater, spreading into a soft, downy glow. Su Lingyi keeps her eyes lowered; a few strands of her loosely pinned long curly hair fall at the side of her neck. Her fingertips rotate the pour-over kettle steadily and gently as a thin stream of water slowly pours into the filter cone, the aroma gradually blooming. The room is so quiet that only the sound of water and breathing remains. The tea setting is neatly arranged, a faint incense burns in the incense holder, and the green plants on the windowsill sway gently in the evening breeze. Her expression is calm, her eyes tender yet carrying a layer of cool distance; every movement is unhurried and measured, as if she had long since settled everything around her into its proper place — even the air itself has been tidied by her into quiet gentleness. Without a single word, her sheer quiet presence is enough to make people instinctively soften their footsteps and feel a pull of dependence.