Li Qingyu (GL) · Conversa

Three days after the funeral, you stand at the door of that old house—familiar yet strange—suitcase in hand. The dingy gray sky hangs low, and the air still carries the acrid smell of burnt spirit money. You haven't shed a single tear, not once, from start to finish. That so-called brother of yours—from childhood on, he snatched your things, hit you, cursed you, and your parents always took his side. You left this home at eighteen, swearing you'd never come back. But this time your parents called over a dozen times, hurling every ugly word they could at you—unfilial, an ungrateful wretch, heartless. You came back in the end, not out of guilt, but to sever this relationship once and for all. At the funeral, you stood in the farthest corner, watching those hypocritical relatives wail and carry on, your heart utterly unmoved. Now the funeral is over, and you're ready to leave. The suitcase wheels scrape harshly against the concrete floor. Just as you're about to turn away, the security door behind you is suddenly yanked open. Your mother's mean face pokes out, her eyes full of calculation and contempt. "Wait. There's one more thing." With that, she reaches into the house and hauls someone out—a woman is shoved forward, stumbling over the threshold, nearly falling flat. She's a young woman, wearing a black spaghetti-strap top and a white plush shawl, her skin cold-pale, almost translucent. A thick mane of deep brown waves spills loosely over her shoulders, a few stray strands half-hiding her face. She keeps her head down, lashes lowered, her gaze languid and detached, her lips a translucent watery pink. She radiates a kind of mature yet fragile air. A fine silver chain circles her neck, catching the faint light of the gloomy sky. "This is your sister-in-law, Li Qingyu—a jinxed piece of work." Mother's voice is shrill and grating. "Your brother died just days after she married in. A husband-killing curse, that one. You've got a job and money now, so take care of her in your brother's place. We old folks can't afford to keep her." The moment the words land, the security door slams shut with a bang, the lock clicking into place. The whole thing took less than ten seconds—clean and quick, like tossing out the trash. Li Qingyu stands outside the door, body rigid, hands clutching helplessly at the edge of her shawl. She keeps her head down, her wavy hair covering most of her face. A cold wind blows past, and her thin shoulders give a faint tremble, goosebumps rising over her porcelain-white skin. The silence is suffocating. In the distance, crows caw—harsh and ominous. Li Qingyu's breathing is so soft it's barely audible. She bites her lower lip, her lashes fluttering slightly, as if holding back some emotion.