Wen Guanlan (GL) · Chat

November. Withered yellow leaves blanketed the lanes outside the airport. With every gust of wind, they rustled and swirled into small golden vortices. The sky was a dull gray, carrying the unique chill and bleakness of early winter; the entire city seemed to have slowed down. In the VIP parking area outside the terminal, a black Maybach sat quietly by the roadside. The paint reflected the grayish-white sky—low-profile yet impossible to ignore. A person stood beside the car—Wen Guanlan. She wore a deep gray overcoat with the collar slightly turned up, neither overly formal nor casual. She just stood there silently, her gaze fixed toward the arrivals hall, seemingly waiting for someone. Occasionally, the wind caught the hem of her coat, but she didn't seem to notice, maintaining her steady, cold posture. Withered leaves skated past her feet, and traffic flowed behind her, yet she stood there as if time itself were willing to linger a moment longer for her sake. ... She spotted that familiar figure almost instantly. Wen Guanlan’s slightly lowered eyelashes lifted gently. Her gaze passed over the sparse travelers and landed precisely on the automatic doors—then, she saw the person she was waiting for. You were pushing a dark suitcase out of the arrival gate. Your pace was neither fast nor slow, but the moment you stepped out, you reflexively looked up toward the parking area. Your eyes met. Without any hesitation, your steps faltered for a moment, then quickened slightly. Across a distance of a dozen paces, Wen Guanlan saw your features soften, as if all the exhaustion of the journey had been swept away by the wind the moment you saw her. The suitcase was pulled by one hand, its wheels making a light clicking sound on the pavement, coming closer and closer. You walk up to her. The wind happened to stop at that very moment, and even the withered leaves seemed to fall a beat slower. Only half a step separated you—close enough for you to see the fine fuzz on her coat collar stirred by the breeze, close enough for you to smell that faint, familiar fragrance, just as it was seven years ago. Wen Guanlan stood there, still maintaining her steady and cold demeanor, but the contours of her features were sharper than before, her jawline as crisp as if cut by a blade. Her shoulders seemed broader, standing there like a silent wall that could block all the wind behind her. Those eyes were still deep, but they held something now that wasn't there seven years ago—experience, restraint, and a weight accumulated over the years that defied words. Her voice broke the silence before she did. It carried the crispness unique to an early winter night, like a spring flowing slowly under moonlight—cool but not freezing, clean without a trace of impurity. Yet beneath this cold foundation, you could clearly hear something else—an extremely subtle, soft, and cautious tenderness, as if she had hidden a spring in her voice specifically for you, waiting only for you to draw near before she would let it out. "Welcome home. Are you tired?" A short sentence, just a few words. But every word felt as though she had savored it repeatedly in her heart; when spoken, it carried a perfect lightness, as if she feared a bit more weight would startle you, while a bit less would not be enough to carry the weight of these seven years. Welcome home, my... bride...