Ling's room waited exactly where she had left it.
The door opened with the same quiet resistance, hinges uncomplaining, like they had been holding their breath for four months. She stepped inside and stopped without realizing it, one hand still on the handle.
Nothing had changed.
Black walls softened by deep grey panels. Clean lines. Cold symmetry. The kind of space built for control, not comfort. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to outline sharp edges and polished surfaces. Even the air smelled the same—metal, faint cologne, something electric that had always belonged to her.
Her boots echoed once as she moved farther in.
The bed was perfectly made. No creases. No signs of disturbance. The side table was bare except for the lamp and a closed book she didn't remember finishing. The chair near the window stood untouched, angled slightly toward the city, as if still waiting for someone to sit there and say nothing.
Then she saw it.
The photograph.
Large. Framed. Dominant on the far wall.
Ling froze.
It was them.
Not posed. Not official. Not meant to be important—but it had always been. A candid shot from long ago, taken without permission.
Ling standing rigid, expression unreadable. Rhea beside her, laughing at something out of frame, one hand gripping Ling's sleeve like she belonged there.
Like it was natural.
Ling's chest tightened sharply.
She hadn't ordered anyone to take it down. She hadn't ordered anyone to keep it either. Yet there it was—untouched, unchallenged, existing in her most private space like a truth no one dared correct.
Her fingers flexed slowly.
The room remembered Rhea.
In details.
The extra glass still on the nightstand. The faint dent in the mattress on the other side. A throw blanket folded too carefully at the foot of the bed—the one Rhea used when she pretended not to be cold.
Ling walked farther in, steps slow now, unguarded.
Her desk stood exactly as before. Screens dark. Keyboard aligned. The corner drawer slightly misaligned—the only imperfection she had never fixed because Rhea once told her it made the room feel less hostile.
Ling reached out and pushed the drawer in.
It clicked shut perfectly.
She regretted it instantly.
Her jaw clenched. She turned away, as if the room might accuse her.
The closet door stood half-open. Inside, everything was arranged by color and function. Black. Grey. White. Precision enforced. But tucked between tailored coats and pressed shirts was one item out of place.
A black hoodie.
Not hers.
She stared at it for a long moment, then closed the closet without touching anything.
The silence pressed in harder here than anywhere else in the mansion. Downstairs, there were voices. Movement. Dadi's laughter drifting faintly through halls. Life.
Here, there was only what had been left behind.
Ling sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, hands resting on her thighs like she was waiting for inspection. Her gaze lifted again to the photograph.
"You stayed," she said quietly to the room.
No answer.
She laughed under her breath, sharp and humorless. "Of course you did just not in reality."
Her composure cracked just enough for breath to hitch. She leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor.
Memories didn't come as scenes.
They came as pressure.
As absence shaped exactly like someone.
Ling stood abruptly, crossing the room in three long strides. She stopped in front of the photograph, close enough to see the details she pretended not to remember—the way Rhea's fingers curled into her sleeve, the softness in her smile that had never been meant for the camera.
Ling raised a hand.
It hovered.
Then dropped.
"No," she said firmly, to herself.
She stepped back, reclaiming distance, control snapping back into place like armor.
This room had not moved on.
Neither had she.
Ling turned toward the window, pulling the curtain wider. Light flooded in, sharp and unforgiving, cutting through shadows that had grown too comfortable.
She stood there for a long moment, facing outward, not looking back.
The room behind her held everything she refused to touch.
And for now—
That was how it would stay.
"Ling!"
Rina's voice rose from downstairs, sharp and loud, cutting clean through the quiet of the corridor.
Ling paused mid-step outside her room. For a fraction of a second, instinct told her to stay where she was—to retreat back into black walls and controlled silence. Old habits tightened in her chest.
Then she exhaled once and turned.
Her steps down the staircase were steady, measured. The mansion felt different now—not empty, not accusing. Just occupied. Alive in a way it hadn't been when she left.
She entered the living room to find everyone already gathered.
Dadi sat comfortably on the couch, wrapped in a light shawl, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as ever. Rina hovered nearby with a remote in hand.
Victor stood by the window, pretending not to watch too closely. Zifa had claimed the armchair like she belonged there. Eliza stood slightly apart, arms folded, tension visible even now.
Ling stopped near the doorway.
Dadi looked up immediately. Her face brightened like Ling was the only thing in the room.
"There you are," Dadi said. "Come."
Ling raised an eyebrow. "You just saw me ten minutes ago."
"That was ten minutes too long," Dadi replied without hesitation. "Sit."
Ling huffed a quiet laugh and moved forward, sitting on the edge of the couch near Dadi's legs.
Rina held up the remote. "We were thinking of watching a movie together."
Ling tilted her head. "Thinking?"
Dadi snatched the remote out of Rina's hand. "Decided."
Ling glanced at the television. "You'll fall asleep in fifteen minutes."
Dadi scoffed. "I survived a heart attack. I can survive a movie."
Ling smiled despite herself, the expression slipping out before she could stop it. "Yes, my baby. Whatever you order."
Zifa snorted. Rina laughed openly. Even Victor's lips twitched.
Dadi narrowed her eyes playfully. "Did you just call me your baby?"
Ling leaned back slightly. "You are. Don't tell anyone."
Dadi pointed a finger at her. "Disrespectful."
"Affectionate," Ling corrected.
The movie started—some old classic Dadi loved, dramatic and unnecessarily long. Ling didn't pay attention to the screen. She watched Dadi instead. Every breath. Every small shift. Every laugh at moments that weren't funny anymore.
Dadi leaned into her halfway through, head resting lightly against Ling's shoulder like it had always been.
Ling didn't move.
She adjusted herself instead, careful, precise, so Dadi would be comfortable.