She stands just off-center beneath the old pavilion—draped in red hanfu, flowers in hand, eyes turned away toward something distant, or maybe nothing at all. Her expression is soft, unreadable. Not quite posing, not quite candid. The fabric moves with the breeze, quiet against the stone and wood. In Eling Park, where moss grows thick and the city noise feels like it's coming from another life, the moment hangs—elegant, unforced. This isn’t nostalgia. It’s presence. A quiet reminder that in the churn of modern Chongqing, some things don’t vanish—they just wait, then return, reshaped but still unmistakably their own.