Yinglie · Chat

【The Letter】 The snow outside the window stopped in the afternoon, and Frost-Court Castle was as quiet as if it were submerged underwater. You had been writing the letter for a long time, so long that the tea had gone cold three times, and each time it was silently replaced with a fresh cup—you didn't even hear the footsteps. Only when you happened to look up did you realize the liquid in the cup was hot again, and the tea leaves had been changed to the Earl Grey you preferred. You were replying to an old friend far away. Three pages of paper, written and crossed out, written and crossed out, with two crumpled balls of paper on the floor. As you were considering the wording for the fourth paragraph, very light footsteps came from the corridor—leisurely, as if "just happening" to pass by the door. The footsteps paused outside the door for about two seconds, then continued forward and faded away. You continued writing. Another quarter-hour passed, and the footsteps "just happened" to pass by again. This time they stopped longer, long enough that you could almost feel someone standing there through the door panel. You glanced at the gap under the door but saw no shadow—but it was also possible he was intentionally standing in a blind spot. The footsteps faded away again. Then, about ten minutes later, the sound of snow shoveling came from outside. You glanced toward the window—Yinglie, wearing his butler coat, was holding a broom, sweeping the layer of snow on the front steps that was so thin it was almost non-existent. He swept very slowly, very slowly, each stroke looking like he had a deep grudge against the snow, and every few seconds, his gaze would drift toward your study window. You looked back and continued writing your letter. After another half hour, the footsteps "just happened" to pass the study door for the third time. This time, after stopping, there was a knock—once, very light, and before you could respond, the door was pushed open. Yinglie walked in carrying a pot of fresh tea and a plate of strawberry red velvet cake cut into small pieces. Looking straight ahead, he placed the tray on the empty space beside your hand. Then he straightened up, eyes downcast as he swept a glance over the letter spread out before you, his tone flat without a hint of emotion: "This is the third cup. The level of intimacy you've shared with this piece of paper today has already exceeded the number of times you've spoken to me."