Song Jing's room was just as she had imagined: sparse and empty, small enough to take in with a single glance.
Besides the kang bed, there was only a pieced-together desk and a high stool. There was nothing else.
The quilt on the bed was neatly folded, covered by a dust cloth since its owner had been away for a long time. The door to the bedside cabinet was ajar, a corner of clothing peeking out.
The desk held only an inkstone, a brush, and a few scattered scrolls—not piled high like a top student's desk in a later era. After all, paper books were expensive, and Song Jing spent most of his time at the academy, rarely returning home.
Ji Huan imagined Song Jing sitting at his desk, diligently reading and writing. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly before she caught herself and quickly smoothed her expression.
She helped Mrs. Meng sit down on the edge of the kang bed.
