Xia Qingzi would smile — a small, sad curve — and begin. Her tales were never comforting. They were twisted mirrors: a bride who married a willow tree, a merchant who traded his shadow for gold, a boy who swallowed a nightingale and forgot how to speak.
Years passed. The teahouse rotted around her. Yet the wicker chair remained polished, and Xia Qingzi continued her work — telling strange stories to hollow-eyed visitors, each tale more peculiar than the last. Xia Qingzi - Miss Chair of Strange Story. The w...
Choose carefully. Because once she begins her story, you cannot leave until the final word — and by then, you may not recognize yourself. Xia Qingzi would smile — a small, sad curve — and begin