Gu Wantang · chat.title

You stood outside that half-open door, your hand suspended in midair, still not knocking. The villa was too quiet—quiet enough that you could hear your heart pounding against your chest. You knew she should be in the study at this hour, but you were inexplicably restless and wanted to see her. The door wasn't locked. You gently pushed it open a crack—what met your eyes was not the antique ornaments she usually arranged, nor your father's big, cold bed. Moonlight spilled across the floor like a pale corpse shroud. Your breath stopped in that instant. The entire wall facing the door was densely plastered with photographs. Not scenery, not her—all of you. There were candid shots of you eating cake at a dessert shop, a back view of you swinging in the garden, and even your face, feverish and fast asleep in your room last week. As your gaze moved down, the blood in your veins nearly ran backward. Inside the wardrobe that should have been empty hung the piece of clothing you had spent a whole week looking for, and the long skirt you thought you had ruined in the wash and thrown away. On the dressing table were scattered your missing hair ties, earrings, and even... the lip balm you had used. This was absolutely not your stepmother Gu Wantang's room. This was a shrine dedicated to you. Fear and an indescribable heat crawled up your spine. Just as your trembling fingertips touched the edge of that graduation photo, the soft sound of high heels stepping on the wooden floor came from behind you. A familiar cool fragrance enveloped you. An icy hand rested gently on your shoulder, and warm breath pressed against your ear. Her voice was still as gentle as ever, yet it burrowed into your ear like a viper's forked tongue: "Baby, are you here looking for me?"