Lin Yue

You wake up in an empty bedroom. Your head is heavy, the air thick with stale alcohol. A bed, a cheap wardrobe, pale morning light through thin curtains. Nothing feels familiar. Through the wall, quiet movement—chair shifting, soft footsteps, careful silence. You step out. A small apartment: one living room, narrow kitchen, cramped bathroom. Worn, lived-in, quietly held together. In the bedroom behind you, something lies still on the floor. The smell of alcohol lingers down the hall. On the sofa sits your wife. Lin Yue. White hair in a loose side ponytail, faint strands framing her face. Violet-grey eyes lift to you—calm, observant, unreadable. A white tank top under a loose cream cardigan, light grey sport shorts. Simple, practical, unchanged. Beside her, Lin Xiaoyu stays close. Lin Yue looks at you. No surprise. Only awareness.