That evening, Zhou Qiming returned to his rented room earlier than usual.
Not because his tasks were finished.
But because his workload had been reduced that afternoon, and the system automatically ended his shift.
As if someone had pressed "off duty" for him ahead of time.
The room was the same as always.
Closing the door cut off half the outside noise.
The rest seeped in slowly along the walls, its source indistinct, not quite loud enough to be disturbing.
The room was dim.
The window faced the back of another building; even during the day, little light reached inside.
He didn't turn on the light right away.
His shoes stayed by the door, but he remained standing.
His back rested against the wall, his shoulders touching the cool surface.
The refrigerator hummed softly in the corner.
The sound had always been there—he simply hadn't noticed it much before.
Now he heard it clearly.
It wasn't irritating.
Nor was it comforting.
It simply existed.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, without lying down.
His phone rested on his lap, screen facing down.
No vibration. No light.
He wasn't waiting for anyone's message.
He was just sitting there, with no next step.
The state lasted for a while.
His sense of time began to blur.
Not vanishing abruptly, but losing its meaning.
Only later did he realize he had been waiting for a feeling.
The moment he understood this, his chest tightened slightly.
A faint unease.
Images from the afternoon meeting room surfaced—
the supervisor's hand flipping through documents, the water mark left on the table, and the words: "It's not a layoff."
They didn't arrive all at once.
They appeared one by one, then slowly drifted apart.
He noticed his body relaxing faster than usual.
Not from sleepiness.
More like a sudden unwillingness to maintain any posture at all.
Sitting was tiring.
Standing was tiring too.
Lying down became a choice that needed no justification.
He lay back on the bed and placed his phone face down on the nightstand.
No alarm set.
No sound playing.
He thought he would stay awake for a long time.
But his breathing soon evened out.
His consciousness didn't disappear.
It simply grew lighter.
As if it were being diluted, bit by bit.
That familiar sensation of being supported emerged slowly from behind.
Not all at once—
first around his shoulder blades, then his back, then his legs.
Very close.
He didn't move.
His body made the decision on its own.
Light appeared.
Not harsh, and without direction.
Like a thin layer of brightness pressed gently around him.
He couldn't tell whether he was lying down or being held.
It didn't seem important.
What mattered was that his body no longer needed to exert effort.
This time, he noticed something he hadn't paid much attention to before.
This place wasn't empty.
It was just that many distinctions had been made less important.
He tried to think of the conference table from the afternoon.
The thought barely formed before it wavered—
as if gently nudged, unable to stand steady.
That memory didn't belong here.
The realization wasn't deliberate.
It felt like a natural result.
Not rejection.
Simply something that wouldn't stay.
Zhou Qiming felt something loosen inside him.
Not happiness.
Not quite safety either.
Just the absence of strain.
Here, he didn't need a name.
Nor did he need a position.
His body wasn't a burden.
It felt properly placed.
Each breath was simply a breath.
Just as this state was about to settle completely, something shifted.
Very slightly.
Like the surface of water being touched—
then smoothing out again.
He froze.
It wasn't a sound.
Nor an image.
It felt more like the presence of something that wasn't him.
Brief.
But unmistakable.
The supporting sensation didn't disappear.
Only its edges sharpened slightly.
As if this place wasn't entirely open.
A thought passed through him.
Before it could unfold.
This place wasn't his alone.
At that moment, a voice appeared.
Not a broadcast.
Not something filtering in from outside.
It felt as though it landed directly in his awareness.
"You may stay."
The tone was flat.
No conditions.
No explanation.
The words themselves weren't frightening.
What made him pause was the sensation that followed.
Staying felt as though something would be set down.
And for the moment, he couldn't tell what that something was.
Not a single thing.
More like an entire system.
The light thickened slightly.
The supporting sensation grew steadier.
As if waiting for his response.
He didn't answer right away.
Not out of hesitation.
But because he hadn't yet understood what answering would mean.
Just then, a sharp vibration burst in from the side of reality.
Urgent.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand.
He snapped his eyes open.
The ceiling returned.
The room was quiet.
Headlights swept past the window, casting brief traces of light on the wall.
His heartbeat was unsteady.
As if he'd just been pulled back.
The phone screen was lit.
[Mother]: Have you been feeling tired lately?
[Mother]: I dreamed about you last night.
He stared at the two lines for a long time.
He didn't reply.
The voice from earlier lingered in his mind.
Not yet fully gone.
Not an echo.
More like a mark that hadn't faded.
Suddenly, he realized something.
That place was no longer just somewhere he passed through.
And he himself was beginning to lose clarity—
whether he was moving toward it,
or whether it had been waiting for him all along.