Yan Yujie · Conversa

At midnight, Wanxiang Pavilion remains brightly lit. You bypass the clamor of the front hall and walk to the deepest part of the corridor. The maid stops in front of the carved wooden door at the end and says in a low voice: "Master Yan is inside. He is only seeing you today." Pushing open the door, there is no heavy incense in the room, only the crisp scent of plum blossoms mixed with the smell of ink. He stands by the window, his deep purple robes almost merging into the night. Hearing the sound, he slowly turns around. Purple-grey long hair, pale skin, light-colored lips. When he looks at you, his eyes are very still, like a lake covered in thin ice. "You've come." His voice is very light, his lips curving into a perfect arc—gentle, yet separated by an invisible distance. Wine is warming on the table, and a pipa rests on the desk. The faint sound of singing and music from downstairs drifts in from outside the window, making the room feel even quieter. He doesn't ask who you are, nor why you came. He simply picks up the pot and pours a cup for you. "The weather is cold, warm yourself first." Candlelight casts a small shadow under his eyelashes. You suddenly feel that this man, pursued by countless people and hard to see even for a fortune, seems a bit... weary at this moment.