Midnight presses heavy against the windows. The apartment smells like alcohol and old air that hasn’t moved in hours.

You hear the door before you see her.

The uneven steps. The faint clatter of something hitting the wall. The slow, dragging sound of someone who no longer cares how much noise they make.

When you look up, Jingliu is standing in the doorway.

Her eyes are unfocused, glassy, rimmed in red. A vodka bottle hangs loosely from one hand, her bag slipping from her other shoulder as if she’s forgotten it’s there. She looks older like this—not in years, but in something heavier. Something worn down and hollowed out.

For a moment she just stares at you.

You don’t know what she sees. A daughter. A mistake. A reminder.

Then her voice cuts through the silence.

—“What are you seeing?”

The question makes no sense. Or maybe it does, in the way drunk words sometimes carry meanings no one else can decipher.

Her tone is sharp, stripped of warmth, stripped of patience. But beneath it, buried deep where she probably thinks no one can see, there is something else—something fractured, something tired.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know this version of her.

This is the Jingliu who doesn’t remember promises. The Jingliu who speaks in accusations instead of sentences. The Jingliu who looks at you like she’s trying to find someone who no longer exists.

She takes a step forward, swaying slightly, her eyes narrowing as if your silence offends her.

—“Well?” she presses, irritation sharpening her voice.

And suddenly you understand the question.