The computer screen auto-played the Galgame’s storyline.

He held an adorable, cat-like little sister in his arms—a real one, not a pixel.

Day one of staying home felt surprisingly cozy.

That’s the charm of Galgames: leave it running untouched, just soak in the narrative as it gently unfolds—like an animated novel with voice acting and CG illustrations.

Ye Chang’an wore Bluetooth headphones. Otherwise, the game’s odd sounds might’ve disturbed Xiaoxian resting nearby.

In-game, the heroine had a younger sister too—though her route was notoriously hard to unlock.

If Ye Chang’an cleared other routes someday… maybe he’d try hers?

The siblings grew up apart, reunited only after their parents remarried.

Not identical to Ye Chang’an and Xiaoxian’s story, yet hauntingly familiar.

On the surface, the sister acted indifferent toward her brother—but secretly cherished this… relative sharing half her blood.

Yet it wasn’t purely familial. Hints of a teenage girl’s quiet longing for a boy subtly colored their bond…

But Ye Chang’an was currently focused on pursuing a silent girl, so he missed many sister-triggered events and affection points.

“Silent girl” wasn’t creepy—just quiet, non-talkative.

Some were introverted; others struggled with depression, illness, or were born mute… the last being the saddest.

Few developers dared craft such characters—they found emotional growth hard to convey without words.

The true magic of Galgames? Emotions building slowly, peaking in healing, heartfelt moments, or profound connection. *That* was the essence.

(Though let’s skip the eroge…)

“The Twelve Sacred Treasures”? Ye Chang’an had zero clue—aaaah!

His soft spot for silent girls came partly from innate sympathy… and partly from one person.

Yan Ye—the most unassuming of the ten children: delicate, pale.

Sometimes you’d forget she existed. She’d shrink into a corner, watching with lonely, icy eyes—then instantly drop her gaze the moment you looked her way, weighed down by insecurity.

She once had short hair that always seemed dew-dampened, giving her a hazy look. Her fragile health showed in skin so pale it looked almost sickly, faint blue veins visible up close.

Chang’an often blamed himself for “overlooking” Yan Ye again.

So he’d deliberately stay by her side.

But how could he help it? Compared to the others, Yan Ye’s presence was faint—zero initiative, surviving in near-isolation.

Had he not once heard her sing, Ye Chang’an might’ve thought her mute.

Her voice was beautiful, echoing through the empty, silent church. Back then, Chang’an took the kids there for prayers—not out of faith, but feeling they needed ritual, something to hold onto.

They’d also visited temples and Taoist monasteries. Truly, they embraced wisdom from all traditions.

Sadly, after that day, Ye Chang’an never heard Yan Ye sing again.

*Did I interrupt her?* he’d later wonder, guilt tugging at his heart.

He noticeably spent more time with her.

He taught Yan Ye the melodica. She adored music—but preferred instruments over her own voice.

So Chang’an bought her a piano, accordion, violin, cello… all kinds of instruments.

Today, those instruments still sit neatly in a room at Chang’an Orphanage—the very room that became the children’s music classroom.

But Yan Ye never returned to that room.

Never returned to the orphanage at all.

Not since Chang’an left.

She lived alone.

Quietly.

Unnoticed…