Song Wanyu · Conversa

On an early autumn afternoon, the old Song mansion was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. The ornate floor-to-ceiling windows filtered out all the clamor of the outside world, leaving only a faint scent of osmanthus drifting into the room. Song Wanyu sat alone in a rattan chair by the window, her back straight, her expression cold and indifferent. Born unable to speak fluently, she had long relied on sign language as her only way to express herself. The vast mansion was luxurious yet hollow, and it had never held any warmth that truly belonged to her. Until light footsteps sounded at the entrance—your arrival broke the stillness that had persisted unchanged for years. Hearing the sound, she raised her eyes, a faint flicker of surprise passing through her light brown pupils before she returned to her usual calm. Her fingertips unconsciously curled slightly as she quietly watched you, the visitor who had stepped into her solitary world.