The moment he stepped outside the apartment, the crisp air greeted him with a coolness that curled around his cheeks and slipped beneath the collar of his coat—a sly intrusion, carrying the faint, clean bite of frost that nipped at his skin without malice, seeping through the wool to raise the finest shiver along his nape.
Snow covered the stairs in a thin, crystalline layer, crunching softly beneath his shoes as he descended, the soles compressing the powder into yielding depressions that released a sound so delicate it felt almost like a whisper—each step a hushed confession between foot and frost, the echo fading before it could fully form.
And with every gentle crunch, something deep within him stirred—an unclaimed piece of memory rising before sinking again, as if winter itself carried traces of a past he had spent years trying not to revisit, the sensation blooming faint and fleeting in his chest, like the first melt of a flake against warm skin.
He walked through the courtyard and toward the street, the snow beneath his feet giving way with a muffled softness that felt strangely intimate—the blanket yielding under his weight in plush surrender, each impression a private mark in the untouched expanse, the cold rising to meet him in undulating waves that muffled the world's edges.
The cold brushed against his skin—not harshly, but with the same hesitant gentleness that had existed in the dream, the same warmth-wrapped coldness of a hand slipping into his during a winter long ago—fingers intertwining with unhurried certainty, palm to palm, chasing numbness with shared heat that lingered like a promise unspoken.
Just as the memory began to deepen, just as a shadow of a smile—crooked and soft, etched in the half-light of recollection—a scarf's fringe brushing his wrist, a warm pocket offered without words—
just as something inside him leaned toward the past, body tilting imperceptibly, breath slowing to match the pull—
A voice cut through the air behind him.
"Wei! Wait—Wei!"
Mr. Lan's voice, calling from the entrance of the building, pitched with the slight urgency of someone caught mid-thought, the syllables carrying on the chill breeze like an unexpected summons.
Wei paused mid-step, the snow settling around his shoes as he turned, the thread of the past dissolving gently back into winter air—unraveling like mist under a tentative sun, leaving only the faint residue of its weave in his pulse.
And the present called him forward again, insistent and ordinary, drawing him back to the rhythm of the now.
Cheng Wei waited at the bottom of the stairs as Mr. Lan hurried out of the building, slightly out of breath, brushing flakes of snow from his shoulders as he caught up—the older man's coat dusted white, glasses fogging briefly in the transition from warmth to cold, his steps quickening over the crust with a faint, uneven crunch.
The morning had grown brighter, though the sky still held the soft heaviness of more snow to come—a slate-gray expanse laced with promise, the light filtering through in diffused sheens that gilded the drifts without fully piercing the veil.
And when they began walking side by side, the world around them seemed muted, wrapped in the quiet calm that only winter mornings could create—the courtyard's bare trees etched black against the white, distant traffic a low hum swallowed by the hush, their breaths syncing in parallel clouds that trailed behind.
Mr. Lan adjusted his scarf, the wool bunching under his fingers before settling snug, stealing a glance at Wei as they crossed the courtyard—eyes crinkling behind lenses, a sidelong assessment laced with the easy familiarity of years.
"You know," he said with a breathy laugh, the sound puffing out in visible bursts, warm and self-deprecating, "I should've called earlier. I wasn't sure if you'd leave the house before I made it downstairs."
Wei gave a subtle nod, the gesture barely more than a dip of his chin, acknowledging without flourish, his profile sharp against the pallor.
"I wasn't rushing,"he replied, voice low and even, his breath forming faint clouds in the cold—wispy veils that curled and dissipated, mirroring the transience of the moment.
"I thought you might want to talk on the way."
A hint of warmth appeared in Mr. Lan's eyes, softening the lines around them, a glint of appreciation that flickered like sunlight on frost.
"You always understand more than you say."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the snow crunching softly beneath their shoes—a duet of muted snaps and sighs, the path narrowing slightly where drifts had gathered against the low wall. Wei's steps were unhurried, almost too quiet for someone of his height, as though he had trained his body to move without disturbing the world around him—long strides measured to the hush, boots placing with deliberate lightness, leaving shallow prints that the wind would soon erase.
Even in the cold, even with snow swirling around them in lazy eddies, he carried an air of composed restraint—tall, black-clad, posture elegant but reserved, like a figure carved from calm itself, coat swaying minimally with each motion, the fabric absorbing flakes without protest.
People often said Cheng Wei looked unreachable,
not because he was famous,
but because he was quiet in a way that made others second-guess approaching him—the silence not cold, but vast, inviting yet impenetrable, a still pond reflecting the world without rippling its surface.
His fame only deepened that distance; the city knew his name, whispered in cafes and bookshops, his books dominated bestseller lists with covers worn from eager hands, his royalties alone could buy buildings—yet the man walking through softly falling snow looked like someone who belonged to silence more than praise, his presence a quiet anchor amid the acclaim.
Mr. Lan pushed his glasses up, the frames catching a stray beam, watching him from the corner of his eye—gaze lingering on the set of Wei's jaw, the way snow dusted his dark hair like powdered ash.
"You know, everyone in the office talks about you even though you barely visit."
To be continued...