Against the Algorithm

Chapter 67: What She Never Said Aloud

She stepped forward slowly, her fingers grazing the edge of a bookshelf lined with titles in Mandarin and English, some worn, some pristine. A photo frame rested on the end table near the couch, facedown but still there. She didn't touch it yet.

Sicheng didn't speak. He simply followed, giving her space but never straying more than two steps behind.

Yao made it halfway into the living room before stopping completely, her breath catching softly. "This... feels like they never left," she whispered.

Sicheng came up behind her, slid an arm carefully around her waist. "They didn't." he said quietly. "They just waited."

Yao moved slowly through the condo like someone rediscovering a language she hadn't spoken in years. The first steps were hesitant, measured, as if each corner might breathe the past back at her too quickly, too loudly. But it didn't. The silence inside was gentle, expectant, like the space itself had been waiting. Her footsteps barely made a sound against the polished wood floors. As she reached the living room's center, she bent down and unzipped the soft-sided carriers with a familiar motion, her fingers trembling only slightly. "Go on," she whispered.

Xiao Cong burst out first, storm-gray stripes flashing as he darted forward, tail high, stormy eyes wide and curious as he circled the couch once before leaping onto the backrest and perching like a small furry ruler. Da Bing stepped out far slower, taking one broad paw at a time. He sniffed the air, ears forward, and with that silent, regal air only he carried, made his way across the rug and curled himself beneath the window seat where a thin bar of sunlight had begun to warm the floor.

Yao watched them with a small, fond smile, her voice barely audible. "They like it."

"They're territorial," Sicheng said from beside her. "They know it's yours."

She turned her head toward him, eyes flickering with gratitude, then stepped forward again, her hand brushing lightly along the top of a console table as she made her way toward the hallway. Each room felt like a preserved echo. The first was an office, one wall lined with bookshelves and the desk, a faint coffee ring still visible on the corner, a closed laptop resting beside a thin stack of papers held in place with a jade paperweight. Yao's fingers ghosted over the chair back. "They had things delivered here." she said softly.

Sicheng said nothing, just kept close.

The next room was a guest bedroom, clean, folded linens atop a bed that had likely never been slept in. The third, a utility room and storage space, lined with neatly labeled boxes, one marked in her mother's handwriting: Spring clothes, Yao.

She lingered there, her thumb resting lightly over the handwriting. Then came the master bedroom. It was sunlit, warm, gently furnished in pale creams and soft floral tones. A book sat face-down on one nightstand. The other had a jewelry dish still holding a pair of delicate earrings. Yao stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping in. She didn't touch anything, not yet. She simply breathed it in, letting the familiar scent of lavender and something faintly citrus cling to her like a memory made real. Her voice broke the silence, soft and unsure. "Do you think I should keep it?"

Sicheng looked around the room. "It's yours. The question is, do you want it?"

"I think I do," she said after a pause, voice steadier. "Not because it's theirs. But because... I don't want to forget what a home felt like." She turned to him fully now, her expression quiet but open. "Would you come here with me sometimes? Not just today."

His answer was immediate, quiet, and sure. "Anytime."

Xiao Cong padded in then, tail high, meowing insistently at her feet as if to say claim it, this space, this history, this breath of who she was. Da Bing followed a moment later, head low, his giant frame brushing lightly against Sicheng's shin before curling into a corner near the window, eyes closing in full contentment.