The afternoon sun was soft — the kind that painted the streets gold without burning. Lian Ye pushed his cart down the narrow lane, the wheels creaking lightly over the cobblestone road. A few familiar faces waved at him as he passed: the elderly woman who sold herbs, the twins who always tried to sneak a fruit when they thought he wasn't looking, the old calligrapher who nodded every time their paths crossed.
He smiled faintly, as he always did.
To the people in this small district, Lian Ye was a polite young man who delivered fruit from his family's store, spoke softly, and always said "thank you" twice. His voice carried the smooth cadence of someone educated — refined, thoughtful — yet he chose this quiet corner of the city for its simplicity. The silence was something he could breathe in.
He'd left behind a bigger life — a better-paying job, louder streets, people who never really listened. Here, everything slowed down. And slowing down felt safe.
When he reached the main square, he paused. Normally, he would turn left toward the busy stretch that led to the bridge. But his hands didn't. For no reason he could explain, they steered the cart right — toward a narrow side street lined with old brick walls and ivy.
It led to the train station.
He hadn't been there in months.
The tracks had been mostly abandoned, only a few lines still running. The air there carried a faint scent of oil and rust. He liked that smell — it reminded him of motion, of time passing.
As he approached the station, he noticed someone.
A man stood by the edge of the platform, dressed neatly in a long coat, a dark briefcase in hand. He wasn't looking at anything in particular — just standing, perfectly still, his gaze lost in the tracks that shimmered faintly in the setting light.
Lian slowed his pace, the cart rolling to a gentle stop.
"Excuse me," he said, his tone polite but cautious. "The last train left nearly an hour ago."
The man turned his head slightly, revealing a sharp, unfamiliar face. His eyes were unreadable, calm yet heavy — the kind that made you wonder what they'd seen.
"I know," the man replied softly. His voice was low, smooth, and almost detached.
Lian hesitated, unsure what to say next. The silence hung awkwardly between them, carried by the distant sound of a turning wheel. Eventually, he gave a light chuckle. "Then you must have nowhere else to be tonight."
The corner of the man's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something close.
They talked for a while. Or rather, Lian did. He talked about fruit prices, about the trouble with rotten peaches, about a girl named Mei who helped him tie ribbons around the baskets and always asked for a slice of apple as payment.
The man listened quietly, saying little. Yet Lian felt oddly comfortable talking to him, like he wasn't really being judged — only watched.
The lights along the station flickered on, one by one. Lian glanced up, surprised by how long they'd been talking. "I should get going," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "The morning trains will be here before you know it."
The man gave a short nod. "Then I'll see you around, perhaps."
Lian smiled faintly, then pushed his cart away.
---
The road back felt longer than usual. The quiet wrapped around him, filled only by the sound of wheels rolling and the rhythmic brush of his shoes against the ground.
Then he froze.
Mei's birthday.
Her present — the white lotus brooch he had picked out at the morning market — was still on the bench by the station. He had meant to wrap it when he got home.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath, half a sigh, half a laugh. He turned the cart around.
The alleys were darker now. The air had shifted — heavier, quieter. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn echoed faintly.
When he turned a corner near the station, he stopped dead.
Down the narrow alley, beneath a flickering streetlamp, the man from before was on the ground. His coat was torn. Blood darkened the stones beneath him. Around him stood three — no, four — men in suits, their faces hidden in shadow.
The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoed sharply in the confined space.
"Should've kept walking, old man," one of them growled.
Lian's chest tightened. He wanted to move, to speak — but his body locked in place. Then, one of the attackers pulled a gun.
The metallic click rang out.
Lian's eyes widened.
And before he could think — before logic or fear could catch up — he ran.
He didn't even remember dropping the cart. He just ran, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding louder than the world around him. The streets blurred. His breath burned. His palms were slick with sweat.
He burst onto the station platform, chest heaving. The night air was sharp and cold.
There — the brooch. Lying exactly where he'd left it.
He stumbled forward and snatched it up, trembling. The white petals of the lotus gleamed faintly under the weak light. His hand shook so badly he nearly dropped it again.
Then, as he turned to leave—
He froze.
A man stood there, barely a few feet away.
White hair. Gold-rimmed glasses. A calm expression that didn't belong in a place like this. In his right hand — a gun, raised and steady, aimed directly at Lian's head.
The world seemed to shrink around the space between them.
Lian's lips parted slightly. He didn't even breathe.
The man's finger tightened on the trigger—
And something crashed into him from the side.
The gun went off — a deafening crack that tore through the air. The bullet missed.
Lian stumbled back, dazed. He didn't see who had hit the man — only a blur, a figure in motion, fast and deliberate. A hand grabbed his collar, shoving something small and metallic into his palm.
Then he was pushed — hard.
The world tilted. His feet slipped over the edge of the platform.
He saw the rails below, the faint glow of an incoming light, the white brooch tumbling from his grasp—
Then, darkness.