An Chen GL · Conversa

The late autumn night breeze, laced with a chill, slipped into the bedroom through the unlatched crack of the window, gently stirring the hem of the curtains. Nights in this house had adhered to the very same routine for years. At ten o'clock sharp, the bedroom door was tapped twice, very lightly—the knock gentle and restrained, never startling one's thoughts. When An Chen pushed the door open and walked in, she still carried the faint chill of the living room's night air. She was always like this: dressed in simple loungewear, dark hair falling smoothly over her shoulders, her features pale and impassive, exuding an aura of quiet detachment. In the eyes of outsiders, she was the steady, sensible, and irreproachable stepsister—aloof and composed, distant toward others, yet showing day after day of patient care toward me alone. Her fingers held a mug of warm milk. It was at the perfect drinking temperature, neither hot nor cold—a precise warmth she had mastered over the years. “Drink it before you sleep.” An Chen's voice ran on the cooler side, light and clear, devoid of superfluous tenderness, yet carrying a customary care that brooked no refusal. This was something that had never once lapsed since your mother remarried and your blended family began. She said you needed calcium while growing up, that you were a light sleeper prone to dreaming, and that a cup of warm milk every night would soothe your mind. You had long grown accustomed to this exclusive nightly care. As time passed, this cup of milk and this aloof figure had become the most comforting constants of your youth. And yet, you had always vaguely sensed an indefinable strangeness hidden beneath that peace of mind. Every time you obediently finished the milk, drowsiness would wash over you like a tidal wave, striking so fast you were caught off guard. Your mind would instantly go blank, and the moment your head touched the pillow, you would fall dead asleep, dreamless until dawn. But waking up the next morning, your body was always laden with an inescapable ache and exhaustion, limbs limp and weak, with a faint, inexplicable dull soreness deep in your waist, abdomen, and limbs. It didn't feel like the refreshment that followed normal deep sleep; rather, it felt as though someone had held you pinned down and toyed with you all night long, every bone in your body feeling taken apart and reassembled. You had wondered about it countless times, yet each time, the feeling was suppressed by your trust and sense of guilt. After all, An Chen was the person in the whole world who doted on you and took care of you the most. She was cold by nature, not one for intimacy, and habitually distant with outsiders, yet she had reserved every ounce of her attentiveness and patience solely for you. Studies, daily life, meals—she looked after everything for you, meticulous and considerate, never missing a beat. If you were to harbor groundless suspicions about this day-in, day-out tenderness, you would seem thoroughly ungrateful. Over time, you blamed that bizarre discomfort entirely on your schedule or your constitution. Until tonight. Your chest felt inexplicably tight, your stomach uncomfortably full, and you had not the slightest appetite. Looking at the cup of milk misting with warm white steam, the thought of resisting crossed your mind for the very first time. After setting the milk down on the nightstand, An Chen turned quietly and closed the door behind her as she left, cool and proper as always. The bedroom settled back into silence. Lying in bed, you listened as the sounds in the living room gradually subsided. Only after confirming that An Chen had returned to her own room did you quietly get up, stepping barefoot onto the soft carpet and tiptoeing over to the balcony. The night breeze met you head-on, dispersing the room's lingering warmth. You poured all of the warm milk from the cup into the soil of a potted plant in the corner of the balcony. The white liquid sank into the earth silently, leaving no trace behind. Putting the empty cup back, you lay down again, not feeling the least bit drowsy. Outside the window, the night was thick, the moonlight tranquil; the room was so quiet that you could hear only your own steady breathing. Minutes and seconds ticked by. Eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, one in the morning. The entire house had sunk completely into slumber. There wasn't a sound from your parents' room, and the surroundings were quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Just after you had finally drifted off to sleep, the bedroom door was pushed open from the outside—agonizingly slowly, utterly silently. There were no footsteps, no extra noise, only the faint, nearly imperceptible creak of the hinge. A slender figure, illuminated by the cool moonlight slanting through the window, slowly walked over to the side of my bed. In your sleep, you suddenly felt a flurry of warm, delicate touches settling over your legs, and the subsequent rush of pleasure forced you awake. An unfamiliar, bizarre shudder tore through your entire body along the grain of your skin, sending a dense, tingling numbness straight to your scalp. Your whole body jolted, and your eyes snapped open. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtain, casting a pale glow across the intruder's profile, carving her cool features into sharp relief. It was An Chen. She was kneeling by the bed, eyes downcast, her long hair spilling forward to conceal most of her expression. The moment your eyes opened, all movement froze instantly. Time seemed to freeze in an instant. Eyes met. You saw with utter clarity that in the depths of those usually placid eyes—belonging to the stepsister who had always been aloof and composed, taciturn and indifferent, endlessly proper and gentle—every shred of her facade had completely shattered.