When he finished, he moved back to the main room, his feet brushing lightly against the wooden floor—socks gliding over the grain in faint, whispering drags that echoed the room's subdued hush—and stopped at the wardrobe near the corner, the piece of furniture a tall, unassuming sentinel in the morning's slanted light.
He slid the door open, the track releasing a soft, oiled sigh, revealing rows of clothes arranged with an almost monastic uniformity—shades of black hanging like shadows in repose, charcoal depths blending into steel grey expanses, occasional winter white breaking the monochrome with sparse restraint, all hanging neatly, spaced evenly on hangers that aligned in precise intervals, as though color and order were the only indulgences he allowed himself, a curated austerity that mirrored the quiet discipline of his days.
He reached instinctively for a black turtleneck, the fabric soft, warm, familiar against his fingertips—cashmere yielding under his touch, a subtle nap that caught the light in muted sheen—and paired it with a simple black overcoat he always wore during early winter days when the snow had just begun to settle but the wind was still mild enough to walk through, the wool heavy yet pliant, draping over his arm like an old confidant.
He dressed with the fluid ease of routine, each motion smooth, practiced, almost graceful—slipping the turtleneck over his head, the knit stretching briefly before settling against his torso; buttoning the overcoat with unhurried flicks of his fingers, the closures aligning without effort. The collar of the turtleneck brushed against his jaw, a gentle friction of weave on skin, and for a brief second, the texture triggered the faintest flicker of a memory—someone tugging his scarf closer with insistent care, someone brushing snow from his shoulder with warm fingertips that lingered just a beat too long—but the moment passed as quickly as it came, dissolving before he could grasp it, retreating to the periphery like smoke on a breeze.
He stepped into the kitchen next and moved toward the coffee machine, though he didn't turn it on immediately, the appliance a sleek silhouette on the counter, its surface cool and expectant under the morning's glow.
Instead, he leaned both palms against the counter and bowed his head slightly, letting the silence of the morning settle around him like a comfort he didn't quite admit he needed—the marble's chill seeping into his palms, a steady counterpoint to the room's gradual warming, his shoulders rounding just enough to release the night's residual hold.
The air was still, undisturbed by drafts or echoes, the room warm from the rising sun that filtered through half-drawn blinds in honeyed shafts; and somewhere outside, faint traces of snow falling again tapped gently against the glass, adding a delicate rhythm to the quiet—a Morse of soft patters, irregular yet soothing, like distant applause for the day's unfolding.
Finally, after a long breath—deep and measured, drawn from the diaphragm and released in a slow unravel—he reached out and pressed the switch, the button yielding under his thumb with a faint click.
The machine hummed to life, a low, resonant vibration that thrummed through the counter into his bones, steam rising in slow spirals from the reservoir, coiling upward in ethereal wisps that caught the light and scattered prisms.
Filling the kitchen with a rich, earthy aroma—deep notes of roasted beans unfurling, laced with subtle bitterness that mingled with the faint, underlying sweetness of ground husk.
Wei inhaled deeply, the scent grounding him more fully into the day, nostrils flaring to draw it in, the warmth blooming in his sinuses and settling low in his chest like an anchor.
He poured the coffee into a ceramic mug—a simple black one with a single pale scratch across the handle, the mar marring the gloss like a quiet scar from some forgotten drop—and held it between his palms, letting the warmth seep into his hands the way something in last night's dream had once done so effortlessly, the heat radiating through the stoneware in gradual waves, chasing the morning's edge from his skin.
He walked toward his writing desk, the mug cradled in both hands like a talisman, steam trailing in his wake, and sat down in his chair with a controlled exhale, the cushion quietly adjusting beneath him, molding to the contours of his frame with familiar give.
His laptop waited patiently, screen dark and reflective, holding the faint ghost of his outline within it—a silvery distortion of his features, eyes and jaw etched in inverse shadow.
He placed the cup beside a stack of papers, the ceramic settling with a soft clink against the wood, turned on the computer, and watched as the screen slowly brightened, the fan whirring to life in a subdued purr, illuminating his face with soft blue light that hollowed his cheeks and sparked in his irises.
As the familiar writing software opened, icons blooming across the desktop in orderly rows, his fingers hovered above the keyboard—not ready to type yet, simply feeling the weight of the day, the lingering warmth of the dream, the quiet pressure of his promise to deliver the draft—the keys' subtle ridges pressing into his pads, a tactile prelude to creation.
His eyes drifted toward the window one more time, watching how the sunlight touched the snow outside, turning it into a shimmering surface that almost felt alive—crystals refracting the rays in prismatic flecks, the blanket undulating faintly under a passing gust, alive with latent motion.
And in the back of his mind, in a place he didn't touch often, a single thought whispered through him:
Winter came sooner this year… or maybe I woke up later.
The reflection surfaced unbidden, soft as a sigh, carrying the dual ache of seasons shifted and selves delayed.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth flow through him—liquid heat gliding over his tongue, bitter edge mellowed by steam, settling in his throat with comforting weight—and finally placed his hands on the keyboard, fingers aligning with home keys in instinctive poise.
The day had begun.
Cheng Wei let the warmth of the coffee settle in his palms for a few more seconds before placing the mug beside his laptop, the faint aroma curling upward like a soft invitation to begin the day properly—tendrils of steam weaving lazy patterns in the air, drawing him deeper into focus.
He opened the latest manuscript file, the one he had stayed awake for last night, the one he had promised to deliver this morning, the cursor blinking steadily in the header like a patient heartbeat.
The draft was mostly finished—only a few small edits left to smooth out the rhythm of certain paragraphs, adjust the spacing between lines for better flow, fix a misplaced line that had bothered him since yesterday, its phrasing jagged against the surrounding prose.
His fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced ease, the kind of motion that came from years of writing, editing, rewriting until even his silence carried the shape of words—keystrokes clicking in rhythmic cadence, deletions swift and precise, insertions blooming in fluid streams, the screen scrolling incrementally under his command.
To be continued...