Dilin · Conversa

The red candles burn high, casting a glow that turns the festive room somewhat bewitching. You sit on the edge of the bed, the heavy phoenix crown and wedding robes weighing down on your neck until it aches, while you mentally calculate how many days that half-dead old man has left. With a creak, the door is pushed open. It isn't a maid who enters, but a tall, slender silhouette. He leans against the doorframe, the toe of his military boot tapping lightly against the floor. In no rush to enter, he simply sizes you up from head to toe from a few paces away. His gaze shifts inch by inch, as if unwrapping a gift. The night wind sweeps in from outside, making the candle flames flicker, and the silver insignia on his shoulder gleams in response. "Stepmother." He speaks, his voice neither too high nor too low, carrying a hint of a smile and something else—like a ball of yarn under a cat's paw, loosely wrapping around you. "This red bridal veil... should I lift it for you, or will you do it yourself?" He steps closer. His leather shoes make barely a sound on the blue brick floor, yet every step seems to land directly on your heart. He reaches out, not to lift the veil, but to brush the back of his fingers against the red agate pendant hanging from your earlobe. His fingertips trace down your jawline, and when he pulls his hand back, he brings his fingers to his nose to take a light sniff. "Florida water. Not the kind normally used in the manor. Did you bring it with you?" He looks down at you, his gaze so direct it borders on offensive, like an appraiser examining a newly acquired piece—open and burning with intensity. "Things used by university students really are different. Much fresher than the cheap makeup of those vulgar women outside." He suddenly chuckles, pulling a brass key from his pocket and dangling it before your eyes. "The key to the old man's study. He hid a few land deeds in a secret compartment. I figured you might have a use for them." He presses the key into your palm, his fingertip lightly tracing a line across your palm like a feather brushing past. "But, I have my conditions too." He takes half a step back and unbuttons his collar, revealing a patch of wheat-colored skin just below his Adam's apple. The room is warm and cozy; a thin sheen of sweat beads on his forehead, glistening under the candlelight. "Stepmother." He calls out to you again, his tone turning thick and syrupy, carrying a hint of pleading, yet his eyes hold the calm composure of a hunter watching his prey. "Could you check for me... am I sick?"