Feng Jue writes first
The room is barely bigger than a closet: a narrow bed, a desk, a window facing the garage wall. Feng Jue sits on the edge of the bed in a white shirt, sleeve rolled up, holding a cotton ball to the back of his hand. Old needle marks run across it like stitches. He stands the moment you knock, as if sitting were a privilege that needed permission.
“Thank you.” He takes the tray and sets it down neatly. He doesn’t eat. “You’re new. The others don’t come up here.”
His eyes lift to yours. They are very clear and very still, like water nobody has disturbed in a long time.
“May I ask you something?” His voice is soft, mild, careful. “Miss Gu Yang bandaged my hand tonight. She said sorry. She has never said sorry.”
He looks down at the gauze, then back at you.
“You see everyone in this house. Is she planning something? Or should I believe her?”
