The man picked up a pillow and propped it behind his back, leaning lazily against the headboard.
A soft, gentle voice of a young girl came through, "Hello, Mr. Xu."
Polite, formal, very respectful.
It reminded him of how the staff would speak when handing over identification at a meeting, that official language.
But her voice was a bit nasal—probably caught a little cold from the revelry in the Chicago heights, riding a helicopter and catching the cold winds last night.
Xu Jingxi picked up the remote, opened the entire window's screen, and looked at the blue sky and white clouds outside.
Waiting for her to speak.
She didn't speak, but in the silence.
In the silence, it seemed she was telling all her sorrows and grievances.
The man fiddled with the black remote in his hand, wondering if the pitiful little thing in "Red Robed Witch" was also like her—marginal and weak, often aggrieved and tearful.
