When Jiang Yue stepped into the room, the door gave a soft creak, barely disturbing the hush that clung to the air like dust in sunlight. The scent of old rosewood lingered faintly—furniture polished for decades—and the warmth of late afternoon filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, casting long, drowsy beams across the wooden floor. Everything felt paused. Held in amber.
At the far end of the room, propped up against a stack of timeworn, embroidered pillows, sat Old Madam Luo. Her posture, as ever, was regal without trying—spine straight, hands folded over a velvet throw, her sharp eyes gleaming like flint beneath silver-white hair coiled into a neat bun. She was still. But she was not fading. Not yet.
The moment Jiang Yue crossed the threshold, those eyes fixed on her.
"There you are," the old woman said dryly, her voice low and edged with warmth. "Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten this old relic existed."
