But as the cursor blinked patiently on the screen, its steady pulse a silent metronome against the white expanse of the document, his mind drifted—not toward the manuscript, not toward the deadline that loomed like a half-formed shadow in the corner of his awareness, but toward the dream that still lingered faintly at the edges of his consciousness, a soft haze that refused to dissipate fully with the morning's light.
He didn't try to recall it fully; instead, he let himself rest in the feeling of it, the warmth of a hand around his fingers—enveloping, steady, the subtle pressure of skin against skin that had chased away chill without demand—the blurred outline of someone he had once known, edges softened by time and haze yet etched with an intimacy that needed no sharp lines, the softness of winter sunlight on snow that wasn't from this morning but from a winter long before, golden and diffused, filtering through bare branches to gild the drifts in hues of amber and quiet gold.
His thoughts floated in that direction without resistance, slow and steady, like dust settling in still air—particles catching the light in lazy suspension, drifting downward in unhurried spirals, accumulating in unseen layers on the surfaces of memory.
Just as the memory began to sharpen—
the warmth of someone's breath near his ear, close and moist, carrying the faint, personal scent of wool and shared space, ghosting across his skin in a way that raised the finest prickle—
the sound of a quiet laugh muffled by a scarf, low and resonant, vibrating through fabric to emerge as a rumble that tugged at the corners of his own mouth—
his phone vibrated sharply against the wooden table, jolting through the calm like a small thunder in a quiet room—the device rattling against the grain, a insistent buzz that cut through the hush with mechanical insistence, scattering the reverie's fragile threads.
The screen lit up again, casting a cool, erratic glow that danced across the desk's clutter, illuminating the stack of papers in stark relief.
Mr. Lan calling.
Wei closed his eyes briefly, lids pressing down in a momentary seal against the intrusion, exhaling through his nose before reaching for the phone—a slow extension of his arm, fingers curling around the case with deliberate calm, the plastic smooth and warmed from proximity.
When he answered, his voice was steady, even slightly formal, though sleep still clung to its edges—a faint huskiness that roughened the vowels, lending an unintended intimacy to the greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Lan."
The voice on the other end came warm, hurried, and a little concerned—pitched with the quick cadence of someone mid-stride, breath audible in the brief pauses, laced with the underlying timbre of genuine regard.
"Morning, Wei. You're awake, right? I didn't want to disturb you earlier."
Wei glanced at the half-edited line on the screen, the cursor now idle in its midst, words fragmented mid-phrase under the blue light, fingers hovering above the keyboard as if unwilling to return to work just yet—the keys' faint indentations pressing lightly into his skin, a tactile hesitation.
"I'm awake. I was just finishing the last adjustments on the draft."
There was a relieved sigh, drawn and released like a knot loosening, carrying the subtle crackle of the line's distance.
"Good. Good. But listen—I need you to bring the draft to the office personally today, not send it online."
Wei straightened a little in his chair, his brows drawing together slightly, the faint crease forming between them as his posture shifted, spine aligning against the backrest with a creak of wood.
"In person? Is something wrong with it?"
"No, no, not wrong," Mr. Lan replied quickly, though his tone held a seriousness that suggested something was indeed on his mind—the words tumbling a fraction faster, undercut by a measured pause that weighted the assurance.
"I just want to discuss a few things about your previous work. Some feedback came in—important feedback—and I'd rather talk to you face-to-face. It'll be easier."
Wei let the words settle, taking in the familiar mix of professionalism and quiet support that always threaded through Mr. Lan's voice—the steady undercurrent of encouragement woven into the directive, like a hand extended without fanfare.
"Alright. I'll come by within an hour."
"Thank you, Wei. Drive safe—or walk safe. It's still snowing."
A faint breath of amusement touched Wei's lips, the barest curl, exhaling in a soft huff that fogged the air before him.
"I'll be careful."
He ended the call softly, the screen dimming under his thumb with a gentle taper, placing the phone down without haste—lowering it to the table's surface in a controlled descent, the case meeting wood with a muted tap.
For a moment he sat there, letting the room settle back into its gentle quiet, though the dream no longer returned with the same clarity—it had slipped away, replaced by the lingering echo of someone's warmth and the slight unease of Mr. Lan's request—a residual heat in his palms, a subtle tightening in his chest that mirrored the conversation's undertow.
He finished the last few edits, fingers returning to the keys with renewed focus, keystrokes clicking in precise sequence to refine the prose's flow, saved the file with a familiar ctrl-s that chimed softly from the speakers, and printed the final version, the soft hum of the printer filling the room with a domestic familiarity—gears whirring in low rhythm, paper feeding through with crisp advances, ink blooming onto sheets in steady progression.
He slid the pages into a black folder, the stack aligning neatly under his touch, smoothed the cover with the flat of his hand—palm gliding over the leatherette in a final, affirming press—and stood up, chair rolling back with a faint scrape against the floor.
To be continued...