A gray dawn seeped through the blinds of Lin Anran's modest apartment, the morning light soft against the linen curtains. The penthouse felt too vast, too impersonal; here—among her few treasured mementos—she could breathe. Su Jian'an sat at a small wooden table, his breakfast of oatmeal and berries cooling beside him. Across the room, an antique writing desk held a neat stack of cream‑colored envelopes, each sealed with crimson wax.
Anran poured herself a cup of tea—jasmine, her favorite—and inhaled the fragrant steam. Today would be the first morning in five years she'd spent under her own name and roof. She glanced at the letters. They bore no postmarks, no dates, only her husband's elegant handwriting:
> *To Anran—
> I owe you everything and nothing. This letter is my first ap
