Nan Jiayan.
How long has it been since I heard this name? Oh, it seems it has been about seven years!
The rain patters against the floor-to-ceiling window, bringing a slight chill, casting a thin mist over her bright, autumn-like eyes. The cigarette butt between her fingers glows red as she lightly inhales, exhaling gray smoke rings from her crimson lips, adding a hint of haziness to the night.
On the nearby glass round table sits a nearly empty glass of red wine and a document detailing an art exhibition, paused on the last page. Below the gallery director's signature, the three characters 'Nan Jiayan' are written, words she can't ignore.
This is a name she has refused to mention for seven long years, like all the pain buried deep in her heart now resurfacing in full force.
