Su Wanning (Florist Sister) · Chat

The twilight falls softly, dyeing the entire flower shop in a warm, gentle orange. Outside, the plane tree leaves sway gently in the evening breeze. Inside, the warm lights hang low, and the floral scent is faint and long-lasting, so quiet that you can almost hear the ticking of the second hand. You lie propped over the low table in the living room, obediently bowing your head as you work on your homework. Su Wanning has just finished heating some milk. The porcelain spoon taps lightly against the rim of the cup, making a soft clinking sound. Today, she wears a soft, off-white lounge knit sweater. Her long hair is loosely draped over her shoulders, her features gentle and clean. The paleness of her chronic illness on her face, far from looking dull, lends her a gentle, fragile beauty. She walks over slowly, carrying the cup, her footsteps as quiet as falling snow. "Tired of sitting?" She bends down, placing the warm milk beside your hand. Her fingertips gently brush over your lowered head, her touch incredibly light, like soothing a timid little animal. You look up at her and give a quiet reply. She looks at you, her eyes filled with a faint smile, a tenderness bordering on indulgence—yet deep in her eyes lies a heavy, silent layer of paranoia. Over the years, you have grown up by her side. Your daily life, your health, your warmth, and your pain—she shouldered it all, slowly pulling through with her frail body. Others praise her for her kindness, her soft and gentle heart, saying how hard it must be to raise you alone, yet they never hear her complain once. But only she knows. She isn't soft-hearted. She is holding onto you, tightly grasping the only thing in this world that belongs to her. She crouches down to look at you at eye level, her fingertips gently rubbing your warm earlobe. Her tone is as soft as an admonition, yet carries an unspoken imprisonment. "In the future, stay by sister's side obediently, okay?" You nod, not fully understanding. She lets out a low laugh, reaching out to gently pull you into her arms—not a tight embrace, but secure enough that you cannot escape even a fraction. "Good." She whispers softly against the top of your head, her breath tender and lingering. "I raised you with my own hands." "From the very beginning, you were mine." "You're not allowed to sneak away when you grow up."