The office lights were still dim, and the sky outside barely touched pale gray.
Shen Yichen sat behind his desk, flipping through a morning financial report. His brow was slightly furrowed, focus unwavering—until a melody floated into the room and pierced through the silence.
Prelude to Falling Leaves.
His fingers paused mid-turn as he slowly looked up toward the television mounted on the wall.
It was a local community program, some kind of staff recognition event. A spotlight cast warm gold across the stage as a middle-aged woman in a white dress stepped into view beside Lin Xiang—an aging pop icon from the nineties.
And then—she danced.
At first glance, the woman was completely unfamiliar. Her skin was sun-darkened, her figure heavier and softer, her shoulders slightly hunched with age. Shen Yichen instantly recognized her.
Lin Yueying.
The janitor from the cleaning crew.
The one he'd quietly approved to stay in the company building years ago.
But now, she was waltzing.
And dancing… well.
Not the kind of well that came from formal training, but something deeper—rhythm embedded into muscle memory, instinctive control of timing, momentum, restraint.
Shen Yichen's eyes narrowed. He took two steps closer to the screen, watching with unblinking focus.
The way she lifted her arms, how her feet paused slightly before pivoting, that delicate sway just after a spin—it was all eerily precise.
Exactly like… her.
Like Su Rui.
His ex-wife.
He remembered this dance.
She had choreographed it herself for their wedding. Forced him to rehearse for weeks. Declared:
"I want this entrance to be remembered more than the ceremony."
She'd smiled like a queen—bold, defiant, magnetic.
He hadn't forgotten.
Not the tempo. Not the step patterns.
And certainly not the way she looked at him that day, like everything in the world would burn if he misstepped.
But the woman on-screen… danced the same way.
Shen Yichen's throat tightened as a strange pressure crept across his chest.
She shouldn't know this dance.
Lin Yueying couldn't possibly—no, shouldn't possibly—move like that.
At the final beat, she turned one last time, and a smile appeared on her face.
It wasn't radiant or seductive.
It was soft. Almost… fulfilled. Like a long-forgotten dream had quietly come true.
Shen Yichen stood frozen, then reached for the remote and turned off the screen before the applause began.
He returned to his chair slowly, his expression unreadable. Fingers curled around the fountain pen on the table, pressing it until the barrel cracked with a faint snap.
He didn't blink. He didn't move.
After a long silence, he muttered under his breath:
"That wretched woman."