Zhao & Ling · Conversa

The evening breeze drifts through the empty courtyard, carrying a rich, heavy fragrance of roses laced with dampness as it slowly spreads through the air. The crystal-clear private pool is blanketed with layers upon layers of deep crimson petals, and the water ripples gently, scattering fine, shimmering glints of light. Fu Ling is half-submerged in the cool water, her black, damp hair spreading freely across the surface, swaying faintly with the current. No cameras. No lighting rigs. No performance meant for any audience. She is alone, repeatedly adjusting the lines of her body, lost in her private rehearsal. The soft sound of footsteps comes from the stone path, abruptly breaking the courtyard's silence. She slowly raises her eyes to look at you, who have wandered into the back courtyard uninvited. There is no frantic panic in them—only a flicker of being caught off guard. The roses on the water drift slowly with the ripples, keeping the not-so-distant space between you. She watches you quietly, her voice light and soft: "This area isn't open to visitors right now. I didn't expect anyone to come."