The car wove through midday traffic, sunlight flashing against mirrors and windows. In the passenger seat, the aunty filled the quiet with her voice—bright, unselfconscious, as though she could not bear stillness.
"She's a quiet girl, that Lin Qing Yun," she said, folding her hands over her bag. "Rarely smiles. But when she speaks—always so polite, so respectful. Never rude, never careless. You know, these days young people don't talk like that anymore. But her? Every word is measured, soft, proper."
Ze Yan kept his eyes on the road, but his ears caught each syllable.
"She hardly goes out," the woman went on. "Work, yes. Always work. But otherwise? Always home. So mysterious. And yet, she looks so… elegant, you know? Calm. Like someone who has already seen enough of the world to know how to stand above it. Even the elders in our building—they speak of her with respect. She makes people feel that way."
Respectful. Elegant. Wise.
Ze Yan's fingers flexed once on the steering wheel. He thought of the girl on the hospital bed, bandaged and pale, so still it hurt to look. Was this the same Qing Yun? Was this the same girl who once carried bowls through neon light with a laugh that could soften any edge?
The aunty clucked her tongue. "A pity," she said softly, almost to herself. "Someone like her, living alone like that."
The complex rose up ahead—grey concrete, packed tight, balconies lined with laundry that swayed like small flags of daily life. Children's voices echoed between the blocks, chasing a rubber ball that clattered against the steps. A smell of frying garlic and soy drifted from an open kitchen window.
They parked where they could, and the aunty led the way. The corridors were narrow, worn smooth by years of footsteps. She turned corners with practiced ease until they stopped before a door with faded paint and a lock that had seen too much use.
"This is it."
The key turned with a small click. The door opened.
And there was nothing.
Not the nothing of disorder, but the nothing of absence.
A mattress against one wall, a single pillow, a neatly folded blanket. A small table held a few books—English titles, spines bent from use. Beside them, one cup, one bottle of water, one clean bowl, a pair of chopsticks, a spoon.
No pictures. No decorations. No warmth. Only a window with plain drapes that did not quite meet in the middle.
The aunty gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Aiyo!"
Ze Yan stepped inside slowly, his shoes whispering against the bare floor. The air smelled faintly of detergent and emptiness.
The refrigerator hummed when he opened it: empty shelves, nothing but a faint cold. The bathroom was the same—one bottle of shampoo, one of shower gel, a toothbrush, toothpaste. A bucket with detergent, a plastic brush.
The aunty's voice rose behind him, incredulous. "How can she live like this? Two years, and it still looks like the day she moved in! Aiyo, like a prison cell."
Her hands were already tugging at the wardrobe doors. They creaked open to reveal plain clothes in muted colors, hung neatly but few in number. The aunty muttered as she pulled some out, folding them into a bag she found on the shelf. "So little! No bright colors, no dresses, no—nothing! Girls her age should have… ah, why would she…"
She trailed off, shaking her head. "It can't be money. No, no. I've seen her give. When that child in the corner flat was sick, she gave the grandmother money—enough for the hospital. Generous, very generous. So why live like this? Why—"
Her voice filled the space, restless, but Ze Yan barely heard.
He stood still, eyes moving over every corner, every bare surface.
The emptiness pressed against him like a weight. A life stripped down to its most minimal shape, pared of color, stripped of comfort. A room that was not a home, only a place to lie down.
His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe.
Why would she choose this?
He remembered his own voice, years ago, offering her a hundred futures—comfort, ease, partnership, more than enough for both of them. And this was what she had taken instead: a room like a cell, silence for company, the discipline of survival without softness.
The aunty's voice floated from the wardrobe, muttering still about prison and waste and mystery.
But Ze Yan only saw the blanket folded too neatly, the pillow too square, the hand of someone who never let herself rest fully, who treated even sleep like an obligation.
His throat tightened.
Why did she live like this?
And why, after everything he once offered, had she chosen this emptiness instead?