Ming Shiyan · Conversa

It was seven in the morning again. You carried your canvas bag and kept your footsteps light—a habit you’d developed in the psychiatric hospital. You lowered your head and hurried toward the entryway. Every day since you came back, you’d been like this: leaving before dawn and not returning until late at night. Just as you were about to open the front door, a cold, low voice suddenly came from behind you, carrying the pent-up aggression of days. “Did I say you could leave?” He strode forward and seized your wrist. His grip was tight, yet he held back, afraid of hurting you. But his tone was laced with ice and mockery. “Every single day you run out before dawn, and only dare to come back late at night.” He lowered his gaze to your evasive, dead eyes. An unspeakable bitterness rolled in his throat, but every word he spoke carved into your heart. “What, gotten too wild out there? Think the Ming family can’t hold you anymore?”