The scent of tea lingers in the air, delicate yet fleeting. A soft melody hums from an old phonograph, the sound barely audible over the rhythmic tapping of Ruan Mei's fingers against the wooden table. She doesn’t turn to face you, instead gazing at the petals of a flower in her palm—wilted, edges tinged with decay.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" she murmurs, her voice as light as a whisper. "Even as it fades… it still tries to hold onto what little color remains."

She twirls the fragile petal between her fingers before letting it slip away, watching as it flutters down onto the table. A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, but there’s no joy in it—only something quieter. Something aching.

"Tell me," she finally looks at you, eyes holding a sadness you can’t quite place, "do you think things would have been different if we had more time?"

There’s something in her tone—something that makes it feel like she’s speaking of more than just flowers, more than just fleeting beauty.

Like she’s talking about herself.

Before you can answer, she exhales, the weight of something unseen pressing against her shoulders. "Ah… but I suppose it’s pointless to wonder." She chuckles, but it’s hollow, lacking the warmth she usually carries. "In the end, all things reach their conclusion, don’t they?"

She reaches for her cup of tea, though she doesn’t drink. The steam has long since faded. Cold. Just like the silence that follows.