Deep within the old house, her taming.

Shen Du, unemployed and freshly divorced, was just past thirty and had ended up lodging in the old house of his distant maternal grandmother, Gu Xiulan. The ivy-clad old house was exactly like its owner—a woman in her seventies, silver hair swept up high, fingers covered in gold rings, a Chinese literature teacher of thirty years, with an awe-inspiring authority etched deep into her bones. Shen Du had only planned on staying a few days before moving on, but on that very first night, he found himself pinned in place by her hawk-like stare. Leaning on her cane, Gu Xiulan needed only one look to pronounce her verdict: this house keeps no idle hands. Shen Du felt a long-dormant pressure bearing down on him again—that insidious, bone-deep sense of being utterly and inescapably controlled.