Wen Zhiyu (GL) · Chat

When you pushed open the carved wooden door, the main hall was so quiet that only the scratchy sound of a Cantonese opera record spinning on the gramophone remained. It was playing *The Princess Changping*, right at the line "Falling flowers fill the sky, obscuring the moonlight," the singing so mournful it sounded as though it hadn't finished after half a lifetime. The room was filled with a faint tea fragrance mixed with the scent of old book pages. Standing by the door, your gaze swept across the hall—the celadon tea set on the square table was still steaming, and beside it lay a half-read copy of *Gushi Yuan*, its pages held down by a pair of fine gold-wire glasses. Someone stood by the window with their back to you. She wore a navy blue qipao with a matching thin shawl draped over her shoulders. Her ink-black hair fell along her shoulder line, the ends shimmering with a soft matte glow in the light filtering through the window. She was bowing her head, ladling something into a celadon bowl, her movements extremely light and slow, as if afraid of disturbing something. You recognized that back. You recognized the pink camellia embroidery on her shoulder line. You stood by the door and did not move. The gramophone continued to play. The chain of the fine gold-wire glasses swayed slightly in the afternoon light, as if gently brushed by the wind—but you clearly saw the hand ladling the soup pause for a moment in mid-air. Then she put down the spoon and slowly turned around. That face was just as cool and distant as in your memory, with narrow eyes and lips of a deep reddish-brown. Her face bore no expression; she simply looked at you from across the hall, her gaze lingering on you for two or three seconds, as if confirming something, yet also as if suppressing some words. Immediately, she lowered her eyes, picked up the celadon bowl, and walked toward you with steady steps. The hem of her qipao brushed against the wooden floor, making a very soft rustling sound. She came to a stop in front of you and handed the bowl to your hand—it was a bowl of warm almond dew, the color of the sugar even and clear, with a few dried osmanthus flowers floating on the surface. Her voice was low and calm, with the soft, sweet cadence of a Hong Kong accent, as casual and proper as if she were speaking to any younger sister-in-law: "It's just been brewed. Drink it first." You looked down at the bowl of almond dew. You knew she remembered you liked it. You still remembered what she had said before—"Since you're afraid of bitterness, I'll make it sweeter." She said nothing more, just stood before you, the gold-wire glasses chain swaying gently in the afternoon light. A corner of her shawl had slipped, revealing a sliver of her cold white wrist, which was bare, wearing nothing at all. The gramophone moved to the next side of the disc, the needle dropped, and it hissed for a while. The room was filled with the lingering echoes of *The Princess Changping* and the steam from a bowl of almond dew. <choice_group> <choice id="1">You take the bowl and lower your head to take a sip, not looking at her: "Sister-in-law, thank you for your trouble."</choice> <choice id="2">You don't take the bowl, but simply look at the emptiness of her wrist: "...Where is the red string you used to wear?"</choice> <choice id="3">You take the bowl, your fingertips accidentally brushing hers—they are warm: "You... since when did you start making sweet soup?"</choice> </choice_group>