‘Idiot’ Is My Love Language

"The bluejay spirit worked hard to help lovers, got nothing in return, and was even punished. The so-called bluejay immortal is just an empty title—what does it matter to the bluejay? It’s still suffering in endless reincarnation, isn’t it?" I let my frustration show, hoping he’d get the hint.

My voice from the maple tree carried a hint of resentment, but to Grant, it sounded almost playful. Lately, he’d noticed some changes. For one, I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Now I spoke to him like an old friend. And at first, he couldn’t pinpoint where my voice came from, but now he could tell I was on the maple tree. Grant narrowed his eyes at the thickest branch. He thought he saw a faint outline, but when he blinked, it vanished. Maybe it was just the sun, or maybe he was seeing things…

Grant rubbed his forehead and sent everyone back inside. He didn’t comment on my words. After returning to the house, he reviewed reports until midnight. I lay on the cold hallway floor, replaying Grant’s behavior during the day in my head.

"Do you think he’s hinting at me?" I asked the white-dressed female ghost beside me, hoping for some insight.

The ghost combed her glossy black hair over and over. "How could I guess the head of the family’s intentions?" she replied, dipping her comb in water and carefully smoothing out another strand.

She told me her name was Ann. Apparently, she’d served the Whitmores by combing their hair, so even in death she kept up her skill. She often floated around the estate, checking out the latest hairstyles among the city’s socialites. Eventually, her wandering inspired a few spooky legends among the maids.

A few days ago, she’d accidentally drifted into Grant’s bedroom and nearly got burned by the family’s protective aura. Luckily, I’d been napping on the banister and caught her in time. I snatched away her little bottle of hair water—turns out, it was scented gardenia water she used for combing.

"You’re brushing me off. Don’t forget who bought you that gardenia hair water," I teased, holding the bottle just out of reach.

Ann immediately pleaded, "Please, just a little longer and I’ll be done!" Her voice was desperate, hands clasped in supplication.

I wasn’t going to let her off easy. I grinned at her. "If you want more next time, you’d better answer my question properly."

Ann gave me an apologetic smile. "Of course, of course. In all my years in the estate, the head’s mind is the hardest to guess." She gave a little shrug, as if to say, what can you do?

Ann paused to think. "But maybe Grant really does think you have a point. You see he only keeps a few women around—maybe he’s open to new faces."

"I don’t get it. I sent so many hosts to him before, and he didn’t like a single one. How can he pick someone himself?" I was honestly baffled. Was I missing something?

Ann smiled knowingly. "You don’t understand. Socialites pop up like dandelions in spring. If Grant wants to pick a partner, there’s nothing to worry about."

She was right. The news that Grant was writing "Song of the Bluejay Spirit" reached Mrs. Whitmore in half a day. No way she’d miss that opportunity. Three days later, she announced a selection for Grant’s new companion. Grant accepted the news with a wry smile. "Mother is truly thoughtful."

Chief butler Carter from Mrs. Whitmore’s side bowed with a smile so polite it was impossible to read. "You’re too kind. Mrs. Whitmore says continuing the family line is the top priority, so it must be handled well."

I’d seen schemes like this a hundred times, but it was never my business, so I kept out of it. Grant seemed amused, running his finger along the golden embroidery on Mrs. Whitmore’s letter as he watched Carter leave.

"Spirit, what kind of woman should I look for?" he asked, a little too casually.

I didn’t hold back, just asked, "Do you really think you can find someone you like this time?"

"Of course not," he answered, not even pretending otherwise.

Holding a selection was just his way of testing which new people Mrs. Whitmore had planted in the circle. No need to spell it out—he and Mrs. Whitmore both knew the game. But even though she knew it was all for show, Mrs. Whitmore would happily send girls in. Socialites in the estate didn’t need Grant’s favor—they just needed to be close enough to act as her pawns.

I smiled bitterly. How could Grant ever find real love in a mess like this?

Once Mrs. Whitmore announced it, the selection became the estate’s top event. Everyone was scrambling, making Grant the most relaxed person in the house. Watching the butlers rushing to decorate, I finally understood the saying, "The boss isn’t worried, but the staff are." It was almost funny—if it weren’t so sad.

But honestly, I was even more idle than Grant. No matter how chill he seemed, he still worked out, wrote, and reviewed the handful of reports sent to him every day. My idleness? It was the real deal. I glanced at my system points—still zero—and felt a wave of resignation wash over me.

I spent my days sprawled on the cold roof, soaking up the sun. Watching the sunset from the tree branches, I realized this estate actually had the best view in all of Maple Heights. The sky would turn gold and pink, city lights flickering on in the distance. For a moment, everything felt almost peaceful—almost like I belonged.

Ann, bored with her own hair, kept bugging me to let her style mine. Who knows what socialite’s look she’d picked up, but with a few quick moves, the girl in the mirror actually looked pretty cute. She even added a twist with a ribbon from the attic, making me look like I’d stepped out of a vintage yearbook. Not bad, Ann.

I gazed at my reflection and couldn’t help but sigh dramatically: "What a beauty—one who could make traffic stop, jaws drop, and Instagram crash!" I struck a pose, fluttering my lashes like I was auditioning for a rom-com.

Ann rolled her eyes. "You’re really not modest at all…" She tried to look stern, but I caught the smile tugging at her lips.

I winked. "Modest? I’m just this beautiful." I twirled, letting my imaginary skirt swirl around me. If there was a beauty contest for systems, I’d totally win.

Suddenly, Ann gave me a curious look and blurted, "You’re really not like any girl I’ve ever met."

I smiled, a little wistful. "I was never from this world." Sometimes, the truth slips out when you least expect it.