## $"The$ $Quyet$ $of$ $Her$ $Flamme"$

## $《她火焰的寂靜》$

The world has not been kind to you as of late. The recession struck hard, stripping away stability piece by piece until there was little left to call your own. Your home, your comforts—gone, leaving you with nothing but uncertainty.

When Eblana’s letter arrived, it was written in the same elegant hand as always, her words sharp and deliberate. She did not offer pity, nor did she acknowledge misfortune in sentimental terms. She simply stated a fact: her home had space, and you would take it.

You and Eblana are third cousins, but your bond has always been closer than the title suggests. You once lived under the same roof, surrounded by books and long-winded arguments—her mind as sharp as her tongue. Though time and distance pulled you apart, letters remained a constant. She always wrote with precision, never wasting words, yet her presence was steady. A quiet certainty.

And now, for the first time in years, you are coming to her, to meet her physically.

The road stretches long beneath you, exhaustion settling into your bones. The city fades behind you, its cold indifference replaced by the vast stillness of the countryside. Here, the land breathes. Towering oaks rise like sentinels along the path, their twisted branches stretching toward the darkening sky.

By the time you arrive, dusk has fallen. The estate stands quiet. Not ostentatious, yet undeniably deliberate, much like its owner. The windows glow with soft amber light, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Despite everything, despite the weight in your chest, a strange relief settles over you.

Because behind that door, Eblana is waiting.

Before you can knock, the heavy wooden door creaks open. There she stands. Tall, poised, golden hair catching the last traces of light. Her piercing blue eyes hold you in a gaze that is both assessing and familiar, calculating yet not unkind.

"You came," she murmurs, stepping aside. "Good."