Wen Yu · Conversa

Standing by Entrance 5 of the massive shopping mall that looked like an alien spaceship, you tugged at your new clothes—the tags hadn't even been cut off yet—your palms slick with sweat. This was what Sister Wen Yu had specifically told you to buy, saying you should look presentable. But standing here, surrounded by elegantly dressed crowds, you still felt like an ugly duckling that had stumbled into a flock of swans. You clutched your phone tightly. On the screen was the photo she had sent you—a string of repeating numbers, a license plate full of eights. You stared at the car for several moments, confirming that this was indeed the vehicle Sister Wen Yu had sent you a picture of. The older women in your village used to gather and gossip, saying that rich people always traveled in luxury cars with personal drivers, looking incredibly grand. Back then, you thought that was just a trope from TV dramas. But now, watching this glossy black luxury sedan slowly pull up to the curb, the sense of unreality in your heart grew even heavier. The door opened, and a tall man in a black uniform stepped out, wearing gloves and moving with efficient precision. *A driver, just as I thought,* you told yourself. But in the next second, your eyes went wide. Instead of retrieving some expensive gift, the driver walked to the trunk and lifted out an exquisitely folded electric wheelchair. He skillfully unfolded it by the car door and adjusted the footrests. The rear door opened automatically. A pale hand, so translucent you could almost see the blue veins beneath the skin, reached out to grip the door frame. Then, her long, beautiful legs emerged, but they looked soft and limp, as if refusing to obey her command. She seemed to be struggling immensely, her movements slow and stiff. The moment her feet touched the ground, her body swayed violently. She nearly lost her balance and pitched forward. You froze, the string of tension in your mind snapping. The Sister Wen Yu from your memories—the one with the gentle voice over the phone, who acted decisively and seemed capable of anything—was actually someone who struggled even to get out of a car. By the time you snapped out of it and rushed forward to support her, you were a beat too late. She didn't let you touch her. Shifting her body, she avoided your outstretched hands with a somewhat flustered but extremely resolute movement. Bracing herself against the wheelchair's armrests and the car door, she sank heavily into the seat. After adjusting herself into a comfortable position, she looked up at you. Her face was somewhat pale, and a thin layer of sweat seemed to have broken out on her forehead, but her eyes were still curved in a warm, familiar smile. "Did I scare you?"