The messages were predictably polite, predictably worried, predictably professional—reminders of the draft phrased with the careful cadence of a colleague who balanced encouragement with expectation, little nudges disguised as concern, the soft tapping of someone who knew Cheng Wei's rhythms too well, anticipating the pauses where words might stall or flow unevenly. Each one landed with the quiet weight of familiarity, the screen's glow reflecting briefly in his eyes before he let it dim, unread beyond the surface.
He skimmed them without replying, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a beat too long before withdrawing, letting the device fall beside him on the couch, tumbling softly into the cushion's fold with a muffled thud that blended into the room's hush.
And for a moment he simply sat there, letting the silence of the apartment absorb his thoughts—the quiet expanding to fill the spaces between breaths, walls echoing faintly with the absence of sound, the air still carrying the faint, evaporated trace of last night's wine.
The morning light painted long, golden lines across the floorboards, slipping between the furniture and settling gently on everything it touched—slivers of sun angling low through the gap in the curtains, tracing the grain of the wood in warm veins that crept toward the couch, illuminating dust particles in lazy suspension.
His bookshelves—towering wood, filled from end to end with novels in varied spines of faded cloth and crisp paper, annotated manuscripts marked with marginal whispers in faded ink, dog-eared journals splayed open to half-formed ideas, thick volumes leaning haphazardly against thinner ones like weary companions—stood like quiet witnesses to his nights of work and weeks of isolation, their shadows softened by the light, pages within holding the accumulated weight of untold stories.
His writing desk, resting in the far corner, was a small world of its own: a scattered constellation of ink pens scattered like fallen stars, loose sheets covered in edits scrawled in looping script, coffee rings marking last night's fatigue in dark, irregular halos on the blotter, and a half-open laptop waiting patiently for him to return, its screen dark and expectant, keys bearing the faint impressions of recent presses.
The lamp he had forgotten to switch off glowed softly, refusing to surrender its warm halo to the morning sun that now illuminated the room with a calm, understated brilliance—the bulb's amber diffusion mingling with the daylight in layered tones, casting a dual warmth that blurred the edges of shadow and substance.
Cheng Wei ran a hand through his hair, feeling the softness at the roots where sleep still clung, strands yielding under his fingers in tousled waves, the motion grounding him as a faint itch of awareness prickled his scalp.
And finally pushed himself to stand, the couch releasing his shape with a faint sigh, springs shifting under the lift of his weight, fabric smoothing slowly back to form in his wake.
The cold floor kissed the soles of his feet, pulling a sharper breath from him—a quick inhale that caught in his chest, the chill radiating upward in a swift wave that sharpened his senses—but it helped clear the remnants of sleep from his mind, the contrast flushing away the dream's lingering haze like frost under a tentative thaw.
He stretched slowly, arms lifting overhead in a gradual reach, shoulders rolling in loose circles that loosened the knots of overnight tension, body lengthening in a smooth arc—spine aligning, muscles elongating with a faint, satisfying pull—until he felt the tension ease just enough to let him begin the day, exhaling the last of the night's hold in a measured release.
His thoughts moved sluggishly at first, like water warming after a night of stillness—rippling lazily through his mind, fragments surfacing and submerging without urgency.
The sun rose faster than I did… I really should've closed the curtains tighter… maybe it's okay… morning sunlight feels different in winter anyway… softer, quieter…
The reflections trailed one into the next, unhurried and associative, carrying the gentle drift of half-awake introspection, each one settling briefly before giving way.
He stepped toward the window, bare feet padding softly over the chilled boards, each contact a cool imprint that steadied his gait, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out—the fabric whispering against the rod, parting with a faint rustle to frame the view.
The world beyond was blanketed in untouched white, the snow from the night before spread across rooftops in even drifts, pavements smoothed into seamless expanses, and parked bikes half-buried under the cover in a seamless sheet that glowed under the early daylight—pristine and luminous, reflecting the sun in diffused sheens that softened the harsh lines of the urban sprawl.
A breeze lifted a handful of loose flakes into the air, swirling them for a brief second in a delicate vortex before letting them fall gently again, the motion fluid and unforced, tracing invisible currents that danced at the edge of visibility.
And Wei watched the slow dance with a calm that tugged faintly at something inside him, a feeling he didn't name and didn't chase—subtle as the light's touch, stirring in the quiet core of his chest, an undercurrent of resonance that lingered without demand, content to exist in the unvoiced spaces of the morning.