Years later, Li Ming gradually came to understand that in Washington, many houses were not truly meant to be lived in.
They were, instead, symbols—of wealth, status, power.
The heavy stone walls, the expansive lawns, the meticulously trimmed hedges, the slow-moving fountains at the center of courtyards—these seemed, at first glance, like simple elements of residential design.
But much was never written into contracts, nor recorded in any public documents.
The houses remembered.
After the turn of the millennium, Washington entered a new period of prosperity. Capital flowed steadily into the city. The presence of the federal government, international institutions, and multinational corporations gave rise—beneath the surface order—to a complex and discreet network of wealth.
Much of that wealth did not move openly through accounts, but quietly shifted through real estate, funds, and layered investment structures.
It was during this time that Li Ming's architectural firm welcomed a new partner—Jin Song.
She met him through a client.
At the time, she had just begun to establish herself in Washington's architecture circle, while Jin Song was already a familiar figure in the real estate world. Brokers, developers, investors—many of them knew him well.
He was not tall, always dressed in well-tailored dark suits, his tie perfectly in place. He spoke in a calm, even tone—never hurried, never loud.
But over time, it became clear that he possessed an unusually deep understanding of the city's property market.
He seemed to know which streets were quietly rising in value, which houses had changed hands behind the scenes, which developments would double in price within a few years.
He often knew about transactions before they became public.
Sometimes, as they drove past a house, he would glance at it once and recount its entire history—when it was built, who had owned it, who held it now.
He spoke as if stating ordinary facts.
In those years, Li Ming often accompanied him to view properties.
They saw all kinds of houses—residences purchased by Hong Kong tycoons, estates owned by local elites in Washington, homes acquired by Chinese buyers. Each property had its own style, and behind each one lay a different story.
Once, they visited a house owned by a Chinese family.
It was astonishingly large. The living room rose like a small cathedral, hallways stretched deep into the interior, each room spacious and silent.
What struck her most was the absence of life.
No photographs on the walls. No family portraits. No personal objects. No children's drawings, no souvenirs from travel.
The entire house felt deliberately emptied.
Only two servants and a teenage child were there.
The child stayed mostly in their room. The servants moved quietly between the kitchen and the corridors.
The house felt hollow, suspended in silence.
Standing in the center of the living room, Li Ming felt something she could not quite name—as if the presence of the owner had been intentionally erased, as though someone did not want it known who truly owned the house.
Jin Song simply looked around and said nothing.
Later, he began taking her to some of Washington's most well-known residential neighborhoods.
He told her that a designer could never truly understand scale without stepping inside such homes.
They went to Kalorama.
The streets were quiet, tall trees nearly blocking out the sky. Many houses were hidden deep within shadows.
Pebbled paths wound through flower beds. A fountain flowed softly at the center. Sunlight scattered across the water in fine fragments.
Inside, a large oak conference table stood at the center of the hall. A black grand piano rested by the wall. Shelves were lined with neatly arranged old volumes.
The entire house felt almost solemn.
They also visited Spring Valley.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls blurred the boundary between indoors and garden. Sunlight poured freely into the living room. Beside a white leather sofa stood a harp.
A long table occupied the center of the room. Abstract paintings hung along the corridor walls.
Beyond the balcony stretched an entire golf course.
Standing by the window, Li Ming looked out at the distant green and felt that the space was almost too perfect.
So perfect that one hardly dared to make a sound.
The one that stayed with her most was an old house in Georgetown.
Gray stone walls. A heavy wooden door, its handle worn smooth by time. Inside, the fireplace was intricately carved.
Jin Song told her it had once belonged to the wife of a diplomat, who hosted dinners there many years ago.
A thick carpet covered the floor. A mahogany piano stood near the fireplace. In the study, a long table held a globe.
Sunlight slanted in through the windows.
In that moment, Li Ming realized—
architecture was not merely about buildings. It carried power, identity, history.
In the years that followed, they began working together on real estate investments.
They sought out properties with strong locations and large plots—bungalows that had fallen into disrepair. Jin Song handled acquisitions and sales; Li Ming oversaw design and reconstruction.
Old houses were renovated, then returned to the market.
Gradually, the firm stabilized.
Just as everything seemed to be moving smoothly, something changed.
It was a March, several years later.
Li Ming had gone to New York for a building materials exhibition.
The next day, excited by new materials she had seen, she called Jin Song, hoping to discuss ideas.
He didn't answer.
At first, she thought nothing of it. He sometimes disappeared into work for days.
But several days passed. Still no answer.
When she returned to Washington, unease set in.
She contacted his wife.
Only then did she learn what had happened.
A few days before Li Ming left the city, Jin Song had accompanied a client from mainland China to sell a villa. They had arranged to meet the buyer at the property.
Four unfamiliar men showed up.
Within minutes, both were taken and abducted.
The kidnappers demanded ransom, warning the family not to contact the police.
For a time, his wife waited.
Eventually, she reported it.
Years later, the group was arrested.
Police searched a rental house they had used. A K-9 unit began barking uncontrollably at a spot in the basement.
They dug.
They found Jin Song's body.
The official conclusion stated that he had died of a sudden heart attack during a struggle after the abduction.
His wife never believed it.
She insisted his heart had always been healthy.
The case was never fully resolved.
Over time, it became an unsolved mystery within Washington's Chinese community.
Speculation followed.
Some said that through years of high-end real estate transactions, he had become entangled with too many complicated people—perhaps he had learned something he shouldn't have.
Others believed the kidnapping had never been intended for him.
It was rumored that the Chinese seller had once operated a private fund in China, later collapsing under debt. Some thought the kidnappers had been targeting the seller.
Jin Song had simply been there.
None of these theories were proven.
Years passed.
The truth remained unknown.
After Jin Song disappeared, the firm was left to Li Ming alone.
She carried it forward for many years.
One day, long afterward, she drove through Kalorama again.
The streets were still quiet. Tall trees swayed gently in the wind.
She noticed a fountain in the courtyard of an old house. Water shimmered in the sunlight.
And suddenly, she remembered something Jin Song had once said:
"These houses… they're not meant for living."