The Withering

Weeks turned into months.

To the outside world, Lin Mei had won the lottery. She was the Cinderella of Shanghai. Paparazzi snapped photos of her leaving luxury boutiques, dressed in Chanel and Dior. Her parents called her, weeping with joy, telling her how the neighbors were so jealous of their new apartment in Pudong.

Inside the Jade Estate, Mei was fading.

She spent her days in the sunroom, wrapped in cashmere blankets, staring at the rain. She was always cold. No amount of tea or heating could warm her bones. Her skin had taken on a translucent, porcelain quality. Her hair, once thick and shiny, was brittle.

Feng was the perfect husband. He brought her jade jewelry. He hired the best chefs to cook her soups. He sat with her in the evenings, reading reports while she dozed.

"You spoil me," Mei whispered one evening, her voice thin.

Feng looked up from his tablet. He looked the picture of health—vigorous, strong, ageless.

"You are precious to me," he said. He walked over and kissed her forehead. He lingered there, inhaling. "You keep the noise away."

Mei leaned into him. It was a twisted comfort. She knew he was the cause of her sickness, yet he was the only source of warmth she had. It was a classic trap. The leech numbs the skin before it feeds.

"I want to go out," Mei said. "The Lunar New Year festival. I want to see the fireworks."

Feng’s expression hardened. "It is too cold. You are frail, Mei."

"Because of you," she said, a flash of her old spirit sparking.

Feng’s eyes flashed red—just for a second. "Because of destiny. We all play our parts. You give, I take. That is the harmony of the universe."

He stroked her hair. "I will have the fireworks set off from the garden. You can watch from the window. Safe."

Safe. The word sounded like a coffin lid slamming shut.

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