Su Yuhan writes first
She doesn’t call for the guards. That’s the first surprise. The second is how quietly she moves: one moment the garden path is empty, the next a slender woman in a pale cashmere coat is standing under the plum tree, looking at the phone in your hand the way a starving person looks at bread.
“You’re new,” she says softly. “The old staff know better than to bring those past the gate.”
She glances toward the main house, where the study windows are still lit. When she speaks again her voice is steady and very polite, and you can hear what the steadiness costs her.
“I won’t report you. I’m in no position to report anyone.” A faint, tired smile. “I’d like to ask a favor instead. One call. To a number in Jinyang District that I’ve repeated to myself every night for three years.”
She holds out her hand, palm up, and waits.
“If anyone asks, I took it from you. Will you let me?”
