He let the curtain fall back into place, the fabric whispering as it slid across his fingertips, a soft hush of cotton against skin that sealed the view once more, drawing the room back into its intimate dimness, the golden light retreating to a sliver along the edge.
And in the soft hush of the morning he spoke to himself in a low voice, barely audible over the silence, words emerging as a private incantation, breathy and unforced:
"...alright… a new morning. Let's not fall behind."
The phrase hung for a moment, absorbed into the air like mist, carrying the resolve of routine laced with a subtle undercurrent of self-forgiveness.
He moved toward the kitchen with that same steady, unhurried grace, each step quiet, as though mindful not to disturb the peace of the apartment—socks whispering over the floorboards, body shifting in fluid alignment, the space yielding to his passage without ripple.
And behind him, the lingering warmth of last night's dream pressed faintly at the edges of his mind—
not enough to distract him,
but enough to remain, a subtle pressure like the ghost of a hand on his shoulder, evanescent yet insistent, threading through his awareness without pulling focus.
Alright…" he murmured to himself, the word barely there, a fragmented exhale that trailed into quiet.
"Let's wake up properly."
He ran a hand once more through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, fingers combing through the dampened strands with a light rake that smoothed the disarray just enough, the roots yielding softly under the touch, carrying the faint, clean scent of his shampoo.
Then padded toward the kitchen with the calm, habitual grace of someone who had built his life around quiet mornings—feet placing deliberately, body swaying in minimal motion, the apartment's layout mapped in every subtle lean and turn.
Behind him, the couch still held the faint warmth of his sleep—
and somewhere deep inside him, beneath layers of routine and reason,
the memory of last night's dream lingered like the taste of winter air on the tongue—crisp, fleeting, leaving a cool residue that sharpened the palate of his thoughts without overwhelming their clarity.
Cheng Wei walked across the room with the steady, almost soundless steps of someone who lived alone long enough to move through his space without disturbing a single shadow, each footfall a muted pad that blended into the hush, shadows along the walls remaining undisturbed, elongated by the low light.
As he passed the kitchen counter, he brushed his fingertips along the cool marble surface, not consciously, but out of habit—an old, grounding gesture he did every morning when he needed a moment for his mind to catch up to the day, the stone's chill smooth and unyielding under his pads, a tactile anchor that drew a faint line of sensation from wrist to elbow.
The lingering cold from the countertop seeped lightly into his skin, sharpening his senses just a little more, a subtle prickle that heightened the room's contours—the gleam of a faucet, the faint condensation on the bottle from earlier—and he breathed in the faint scent of winter air that had entered through the slight opening in the window during the night, crisp and mineral, carrying the outside's purity inward like an uninvited guest.
He reached the bathroom, pushing the door open with a slow sweep of his hand, the hinge releasing a soft, near-inaudible creak, and the bright white tiles reflected the pale morning light in soft, muted glows—surfaces gleaming with diffused radiance, the porcelain catching the slant and scattering it in gentle bounces that softened the space's edges.
The mirror showed him a version of himself he only met in early hours—hair dishevelled, strands falling unevenly across his forehead in tousled waves that caught the light in subtle sheens; eyes still carrying the weight of sleep and something else, something older than dreams, lids heavy with the residue of introspection, irises shadowed in quiet depth.
He turned on the tap, the faucet twisting with a faint metallic click, cupping his hands beneath the cold water—a basin forming in his palms, the stream rushing clear and forceful—and splashed it across his face; the icy shock travelled along his jawline, tracing the bone's curve in a swift chill, down his neck in rivulets that soaked his collar, and into his chest, waking him more effectively than any alarm ever could, the sensation blooming outward in a clarifying wave that chased the last veils of slumber.
As droplets slid down his skin, tracing erratic paths that cooled in the air before dripping away, he exhaled slowly, feeling the chill settle into clarity—a deep, measured release that steadied his breath, sharpening the world's focus from soft blur to crisp definition.
He reached for the towel hanging by the side, the fabric soft and slightly damp from previous use, patting his face gently, dabbing at the moisture with unhurried strokes that absorbed without abrasion, then ran his fingers through his hair until the messy strands fell into a neater shape, combing with light pulls that aligned the locks, though a few rebellious ones still curved outward as if refusing to surrender their freedom, twisting defiantly at the crown.
He didn't bother forcing them down—he never did, letting the minor chaos persist as a quiet allowance. Instead, he simply let them fall where they wished, the imperfections softening his otherwise composed appearance, adding a lived-in texture to the mirror's reflection.
He brushed his teeth, the minty taste spreading across his tongue, refreshing but sharp—a tingling burst that filled his mouth with cool intensity, the paste's foam building in rhythmic strokes of the brush, and while he stood there, eyes half-lidded, leaning slightly against the sink, elbow propped on the edge for casual support, his thoughts drifted unhurriedly back to the day ahead—the draft he needed to finish, pages waiting in digital limbo; the call he would inevitably have to make, voice measured against expectation; the way winter sunlight looked too delicate to match the heaviness of his schedule, its pallor too fragile for the weight of unwritten lines.
His mind, even at its busiest, moved with a quiet elegance, weaving between tasks and memories with the same calm pace as his steps—threads of obligation interlacing with echoes of repose, unknotted and fluid, carrying him forward without haste.