Runze's POV
The solid mahogany doors click shut, cutting off the rhythmic clatter of my mother's heels against the marble foyer.
Through the curtains lining the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch my parents walk down the stone steps. My father's shoulders are stiff, his posture rigid with suppressed fury, while my mother clutches the silk ribbon of the house pastry box as if it were a consolation prize. They step into their car without looking back, the engine turning over as the vehicle glides past the gates.
A soft rustle draws my attention to the side table.
Just before stepping out behind our parents, Feifei had lingered for a split second. Without a word, she had slipped a small, hand-knitted pair of pale blue baby booties beside the vase of orchids.
They weren't wrapped in luxury foil, nor did they bear a designer label bought from a corporate expense account. They were simple, soft yarn, crafted with quiet, patient hands.
