Five years.
That was how long Xiang Lu had been at his side.
Liu Yang was a generous employer, yet a demanding man.
He disliked the cold, so Xiang Lu always carried a small insulated case filled with warm towels.
When she handed one to him, he pressed it to his hands, feeling the heat return to his fingertips.
She passed him the day's newspapers—the entertainment section carefully placed on top of the financial one.
He glanced briefly at the photo—his own face next to Karl's—and tossed it aside without emotion.
He turned to the financial pages, reading in silence.
Half an hour later, the car stopped before the hotel.
There was a meeting he had to attend.
"Book a restaurant," he said as he stepped out. "I'll have lunch with her."
Xiang Lu nodded and dialed Karl's agent.
Business was business.
Between powerful people, even love could be arranged.
In Seattle, evening had fallen.
A little girl climbed the stairs, clutching a photograph in her small hands.
Her name was Gu Liusha—English name Jane.
She was six years old.
The staircase stretched long and dark, leading upward into a forbidden quiet.
On the walls hung family portraits—her grandparents, her parents, her uncle and aunt.
But never Ying Ying.
Not even in the family photo.
In this house, Ying Ying was an absence, a name no one spoke.
Two years ago, her grandfather had died of cancer.
Yesterday, her grandmother had seen a name in the newspaper—Liu Yang—and collapsed from a stroke.
Now she lay in the hospital.
Jane's father worked endlessly; her mother stayed at her grandmother's bedside.
The house was silent.
"Jane, come down," her father called from below, voice deep and stern.
She bit her lip.
"Yes, Daddy."
But as he turned away, she slipped quietly up the last few steps.
The attic door stood locked.
The forbidden place.
She waited until no sound came from downstairs, then took the key she had stolen days before.
The lock clicked.
Inside, dust floated in the fading light.
A small iron-covered window glimmered faintly. Standing on her tiptoes, Jane pushed the iron aside.
The last light of day poured in.
In the corner stood a red lacquer wardrobe, old and cracked with time. Its mirror was still smooth, still bright—
and reflected, in its quiet surface,
a woman sitting silently by the window,
her eyes filled with distance and sorrow,
as if she were waiting still
for the bird who had once promised to return.