Many years later, Li Ming gradually realized that in Washington, many houses were not really meant to be lived in.
They were symbols—of wealth, status, power…
Thick stone walls, wide lawns, meticulously trimmed hedges, fountains flowing gently at the center of the yard—they seemed only part of what defined a residence.
Many rules were never written in contracts, never appeared in public records. Yet the houses left traces.
After the turn of the millennium, Washington was experiencing a new wave of prosperity. Huge sums of money poured into the city. The federal government, international organizations, and multinational corporations slowly wove a complex, hidden network of wealth beneath the city's orderly surface.
Much of this wealth did not move through accounts openly. It shifted quietly, through real estate, funds, and intricate investment structures.
At this time, Li Ming's architecture firm welcomed a new partner—Jin Song.
She had met him through a client. By then, she had just secured her footing in Washington's architecture scene, while Jin Song was already a familiar figure in the real estate world. Many brokers, developers, and investors knew him.
He was short, always in a sharply tailored dark suit, tie perfectly knotted. His voice was soft, calm, measured. Yet the longer one dealt with him, the more one realized how deeply he knew the city's property market.
Which streets were quietly appreciating, which houses had new owners behind the scenes, which development would double in value in a few years—he seemed to know before anyone else.
Many transactions, even before becoming public, reached him first.
Sometimes, when they drove past a house, Jin Song could glance at it and recount its history: when it was built, who once owned it, who currently held it. He spoke with quiet certainty, as if discussing the most ordinary fact.
For years, Li Ming often accompanied him on property viewings.
They visited all kinds of houses—residences bought by Hong Kong tycoons in the U.S., estates of Washington magnates, and homes owned by Chinese buyers. Each house carried its own style and hidden story.
Once, they visited a Chinese family's house.
It was enormous. The living room soared like a small cathedral, corridors stretched inward endlessly, each room spacious and silent.
Strangely, there were almost no signs of life.
No photos on the walls, no family portraits. No personal mementos, no children's drawings, no souvenirs from travels.
The house seemed deliberately emptied.
Inside, there were only two servants and a teenage child. The child mostly stayed in their room, while the servants moved quietly between the kitchen and hallways.
The house felt vast, solemn, almost unnervingly empty.
Standing in the center of the living room, Li Ming felt a strange unease—as if the presence of the owners had been deliberately erased, as if no one wanted anyone to know who truly owned the house.
Jin Song merely looked around, saying nothing.
In the following years, he took her to some of Washington's most prestigious neighborhoods.
He explained that as a designer, one could hardly understand the true scale of a mansion without stepping inside.
They went to Kalorama. The streets were quiet, tall trees nearly blotting out the sky. Many houses were hidden deep in shadows.
Cobblestone paths wound between flowerbeds. Fountains flowed in the yard, sunlight scattering into sparkling fragments.
In the central hall, a massive oak conference table dominated the space. A black grand piano rested against the wall. Shelves neatly held old volumes of classics. The entire house was silent to the point of solemnity.
They also visited Spring Valley. Floor-to-ceiling windows merged courtyard and interior; sunlight poured into the living room unobstructed. Beside a white leather sofa stood a harp. A long conference table filled the center of the room. Abstract paintings hung along the corridors. Outside the balcony stretched a golf course.
Li Ming stood at the window, looking over the grass, and felt the perfection of the space—so complete it was almost intimidating.
Her most lasting impression came from an old house in Georgetown.
Gray stone walls, heavy wooden doors polished smooth by time. Inside, the fireplace carved in exquisite detail.
Jin Song told her it had once belonged to a diplomat's wife who hosted countless dinner parties there years ago.
Thick carpets covered the hall. A rosewood piano stood near the fireplace. In the study, a long conference table held a globe. Sunlight slanted through the window.
In that moment, Li Ming understood—architecture was more than houses; it carried power, identity, and history.
In the following years, they began working together on real estate investments. They sought out well-located plots with large but dilapidated bungalows. Jin Song handled acquisition and sales, Li Ming took care of design and renovation.
Old houses were refurbished and returned to the market. The firm gradually stabilized.
But just as things seemed to be going smoothly, everything changed.
It was a March, a few years later. Li Ming went to New York for a building materials exhibition. Excited by new materials she saw, she called Jin Song to discuss her ideas—but the phone went unanswered.
At first, she did not worry. Jin Song was sometimes busy. But days passed, and the line remained silent.
Returning to Washington, she sensed something was wrong. Contacting Jin Song's wife, she learned the truth.
A few days before her trip, Jin Song had accompanied a client from mainland China to sell a villa. Four strangers showed up. Two men were quickly abducted and bound.
The kidnappers demanded ransom and forbade anyone from calling the police. For a time, Jin Song's wife waited. Eventually, she called the authorities.
Years later, the group was apprehended. Dogs searched their previous apartments, barking frantically at a basement floor. The police dug and found Jin Song's body.
Officially, he died of a heart attack during a struggle after being kidnapped. His wife never believed it. She said his heart had never been a problem.
The case never reached a clear conclusion. Slowly, it became a cold case in Washington's Chinese community.
Speculations circulated. Some said Jin Song, dealing in high-end real estate, had encountered people too dangerous. Others claimed the kidnapping was never meant for him—he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No evidence confirmed any story.
Years passed, and the truth remained unknown.
After Jin Song's disappearance, Li Ming ran the firm alone for many years.
Many years later, she drove past Kalorama. The streets were still quiet, trees swaying gently in the wind. She saw a fountain sparkling in sunlight and remembered Jin Song's words:
"These houses are not meant to be lived in…"