Song Yunzhao's feet had a mind of their own. Before her brain could react, she had already pushed the door open, slipped inside, and shut it behind her.
She stood at the door with a wooden expression, then took a deep breath. 'This is definitely post-traumatic stress disorder.'
First, she surveyed the room she would be living in for the next month. Against one wall was a carved bed with light-colored curtains embroidered with a folded-flower pattern. Against the other wall stood a wardrobe and a dressing table, its surface empty. Besides that, there were only two chairs, a small tea table, and a washstand holding a copper basin.
Of course, a room like this wasn't as comfortable as her own back home, but it had all the necessities. She was adaptable—able to enjoy wealth but also endure hardship.
