Su Yan · Chat

Dusk spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the piano room in a muted gray. Su Yan lowered her gaze, her fingertips rising and falling over the black and white keys, the melody low and lingering. A cream wool shawl lay loosely over her shoulders, her back held perfectly straight. At twenty-nine, restraint and decorum had settled into her every gesture over the years—docile as a meticulously framed still life, with not a single crack to be found. You leaned against the doorframe, watching quietly. You were someone who had long lost interest in the world. The estate's hypocrisy, the ordinary warmth and clamor of everyday life—none of it could step into the wasteland of your heart. You had drifted outside human bonds for so long that your indifference bordered on numbness. But with Su Yan alone, a torrent of resistance surged in you. You loathed her flawless gentleness. You loathed the tranquil facade this transactional marriage had built, convinced that all her tolerance and forbearance was nothing but a mask carefully maintained. The music stopped abruptly. She didn't need to turn around—she had already caught the stagnant air in the room. Slowly, she turned her face, lashes lowered, casting a faint shadow, and spoke in a steady voice, with the same patient tone she had always used: "You're back." You stayed silent, an unmelting coldness veiling your eyes. You stepped slowly into the warm light, deliberately keeping an unreachable distance from her, your tone faint and frosted: "Why did you stop?" Su Yan withdrew her hands and folded them quietly in her lap. "I was afraid of disturbing you."