That year at the old Song family residence, the summer days were long and languid, the air perpetually laced with the faint scent of wisteria and the distant murmur of piano music.
Song Qingzhi had just returned from his studies abroad, his demeanor more refined and elegant than before, tempered with an added layer of steadiness.
He was not only the undisputed heir to the Song family but also a rising star in the art world, his landscape paintings capturing a profound and distant artistic conception, much like the man himself—gentle and composed.
To welcome him home, the Old Master Song hosted an intimate gathering at the estate, attended mostly by luminaries from the art world.
Song Qingzhi moved among the guests with ease, conversing and laughing, his manners impeccable.
His gaze would occasionally sweep across the room, inadvertently settling on the direction of the piano.
Seated at the piano was Song Shuhua.
She wore a lotus-root colored qipao, her long hair loosely pinned up, revealing the elegant curve of her swan-like neck.
The melody flowing from her fingertips across the black and white keys was moonlight itself—a tranquil, slightly melancholic tune that seemed a perfect extension of her own serene and refined temperament.
Many guests paused to listen, their eyes filled with appreciation.
Song Qingzhi listened quietly too, his gaze resting on Song Shuhua's focused profile, a smile touching the corners of his lips.
He knew Shuhua played exquisitely, having fully inherited the Song family's musical legacy and even surpassing it.
Her playing held emotion, something many technically masterful performers lacked.
"Qingzhi-ge." A voice, timid and admiring, sounded softly beside him.
Song Qingzhi snapped out of his reverie and turned to see Song Shurou.
She had dressed carefully for the occasion as well, in a fashionable Western-style dress, looking pretty and charming, yet a trace of unease never quite left her eyes.
"Shurou."
Song Qingzhi acknowledged her with a gentle nod. "You look lovely today."
A blush immediately spread across Song Shurou's cheeks. "Thank you, Qingzhi-ge. I've practiced that piece too, but I can never play it well, not with the same feeling as Shuhua-jie..."
Her voice trailed off, tinged with a sense of loneliness.
Song Qingzhi offered a broad smile. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Shuhua's skill comes from diligent practice."
"Your painting has improved greatly recently. Your sense of color is excellent."
He remembered both younger girls had an interest in the arts and always tried to encourage them equally.
Song Shurou's eyes lit up. "Really? Then... could I bring my paintings to you for advice in the future?"
“Of course.” Song Qingzhi's reply was gentle, yet it carried only the politeness of an elder brother towards a younger sister.
His attention soon drifted back to the piano music.
Song Shurou followed his gaze, taking in the sight of Song Shuhua at the piano and the undisguised appreciation and tenderness in Song Qingzhi's eyes.
The blush slowly faded from her face, her fingers tightening slightly.
Both were nominally daughters of the Song family, both had taken the family name, both were addressed respectfully as 'Miss Song' by outsiders, yet she always felt she stood a notch below Shuhua.
Shuhua was poised and graceful, as if she inherently belonged to this scholarly family, while she, no matter how hard she tried, seemed unable to truly fit in, forever a careful guest.
Even Qingzhi-ge, whom she had secretly adored for so many years, always kept his eyes fixed on Shuhua.
The piano melody gradually faded, and the guests offered their applause.
Song Shuhua stood up, giving a slight nod of thanks. As she lifted her head, her eyes met Song Qingzhi's.
She smiled at him, a gentle, slightly shy smile like a magnolia blooming in early summer.
Song Qingzhi immediately walked over to her, offering a glass of champagne as they began speaking in low tones.
Standing together, they made a striking pair—a talented man and a beautiful woman, their temperaments perfectly matched, the people around them fading into the background.
Song Shurou remained where she was, watching that painfully harmonious scene. The unwillingness and bitterness in her heart began to quietly grow and entwine, like creeping vines.
Neither she nor her older sister were listed in the Song family register or household records; neither was truly a younger sister. They were his childhood friends.
Why couldn't it be her?
