Christmas passed like a blurred painting washed in grey.
The mansion, once bright with light and decorated trees, stood quiet beneath the weight of winter. The ornaments still hung from branches in the main hall, but no one bothered to turn the lights on anymore. The scent of pine and cinnamon had faded, replaced by incense and the faint bitterness of grief.
Zhou Ruyan had left clear instructions before she passed.
No grand spectacle. No elaborate ceremony. No wealthy families turning her farewell into a social gathering. No media cameras hovering at the gates to capture the Ramsy family's tears for profit.
She wanted something small. Closed. Private.
And so it was.
Only close relatives attended. No distant business associates. No politicians offering rehearsed condolences. The gates of Ramsy Mansion remained shut. The outside world was kept firmly at a distance.
