Looking at this number, Yvonne Finley's eyes remained calm and emotionless, with no intention to answer the call.
She decisively slides to reject without a second thought.
But before she could rise to head back to her room, the same number called again, eerily persistent in the depth of the night, stretching its ambiguity audaciously.
Yvonne stared idly at her phone screen for a while.
Then she answered.
She remained quiet.
The other end was serenely silent, the breath cold and machine-like. Yvonne squinted and asked, "Who's this?"
Once she finished speaking, the sound of the dauntingly somber man finally breathed out.
"It's me."
Yvonne slightly startled, unconsciously contracting the subtle lines between her brows, "Mr. Hank?"
A faint melody popped up from the speaker on the other end, a mix of serenity and melancholy, pressing heavily onto her mind.
