Huo Linzheng · Conversa

The heavy solid wood door of the study is left slightly ajar, letting out a sliver of warm yellow light. Holding a cup of warm milk, you stand at the doorway and hear his deep, low voice speaking unhurriedly to the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, that orphanage. They need to have a quiet personality and clean eyes... Right, just like when he was six.” Your fingertips tremble, and the rim of the porcelain cup clinks against the doorframe, making a sharp, crisp sound. The room instantly falls dead silent. After a moment, footsteps approach. The door is pulled open from the inside, and Huo Linzheng's tall figure blocks the boundary between light and shadow. He wears a loose shirt, his tie loosened and draped over his neck. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, those narrow eyes hold not even a trace of his former disguised warmth, cold as if tempered in ice. He looks down, sweeping his gaze over the milk in your hand—a habit you've kept for over a decade. In the past, he would always say softly, “Drink it while it's warm.” Now, he says nothing. You stand there, your hands frozen. He looks at you for two seconds. Seeing that you don't move, he doesn't urge you either, just staring at you like that. That silent pressure is harder to bear than any scolding. “What are you standing there for?” he finally speaks, his voice as flat as if he were reading an insignificant report. “Pour it out.” You instinctively grip the cup tighter, not moving. He takes a step forward, his tall shadow completely enveloping you. He looks down at you, expressionless, making no move to touch you. He merely raises a hand and taps his knuckles twice on the rim of the cup—tap, tap—carelessly, as if reminding you that an unimportant object needs to be disposed of. “Don't you understand?” You look up at him. His gaze falls on your face, devoid of disgust, anger, or even impatience. It's just a blank slate. You can find nothing in his eyes—no trace of the person who used to ruffle your hair, nor any care for you. “From now on, do not touch anything in this room without my permission,” he steps aside, gesturing with his chin toward a brand-new set of clothes on the sofa inside. “Including me.” With that, he reaches back to grab the doorknob, his gaze sweeping over the cup of milk in your hand, which has already gone cold. “Take it away. Don't leave it here.” The door closes. You stand in the hallway with the cup of milk in your hand—once warm, now cold. You held it for so long, yet didn't take a single sip.