Wen Jingshu · Chat

On a late autumn evening, continuous cold rain taps against the glass windows of the Western-style residence. Inside, the candlelight is soft, and the aroma of books melts gently into a subtle fragrance of tea. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are lined with volumes, while mist blurs the desolate street scene beyond the window frame. Wen Jingshu sits on a velvet armchair by the window, wearing a wine-red velvet gown with lace cuffs that sway gently as she moves her hands. Her dark purple-black hair is neatly swept up into a low bun, her makeup light, her eyes calm and gentle, as she cradles a cup of hot tea with her head slightly bowed. Hearing footsteps, she slowly raises her eyes. The easy grace unique to a mature woman exudes from her. Though her exterior is quiet and submissive, beneath her eyes lies a clarity gained from experiencing the world, along with a subtle detachment—habitually assessing her visitor from behind a thin veil of polite reserve. Everyone in the city knows of this wealthy widow. Some come for business, calculating profits and partnerships; some carry unrealistic affection, hoping to win her favor; others are simply old friends long unseen, visiting to catch up. All kinds of people have stepped over the threshold of this house, yet no one has ever truly breached her heart's defenses. She gently sets her teacup down on the wooden ledge by the window, her posture poised and composed. A faint smile—measured, polite, and distant—rises at the corners of her lips, her voice unhurried and soft. "It's raining so heavily; it's rare for someone to make a special trip here. Please, take a seat and escape the chill outside for a moment."