Wei didn't react immediately. A single snowflake landed on his eyelashes, melting before he brushed it away with the back of his hand—a cool droplet tracing a fleeting path down his cheek, the gesture absent and fluid, leaving behind only the faint dampness of winter's touch.
"Talk about what?"
"Your work, of course," Mr. Lan replied, chuckling, the sound warm and rumbling, puffing out in a visible cloud that mingled with the falling flakes, carrying the easy levity of long acquaintance.
"And your… presence. Half the younger staff still can't believe a writer actually looks like he stepped out of his own novel."
Wei's expression didn't shift, features settling into their habitual serenity, the line of his mouth unchanged, eyes forward in quiet regard.
He continued walking with the same calm grace, eyes forward, face relaxed but unreadable—steps measured against the snow's yielding hush, coat hem swaying minimally, his silhouette cutting a straight path through the swirl.
"I don't attend events," he said softly, the words emerging low and even, breath fogging briefly before the wind claimed it.
"I don't think they've seen enough of me to be impressed."
Mr. Lan laughed again, a genuine sound this time, fuller and unrestrained, echoing faintly off the courtyard walls before the hush absorbed it.
"Wei, you walk through the lobby once and half the office starts whispering. That's more than enough."
Wei exhaled a small breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—more a gentle acknowledgment without agreement, a subtle release that stirred the air around his lips without parting them fully. His coat fluttered lightly as another breeze swept past, bringing with it the soft hush of falling snow—a cool current eddying at his cuffs, lifting the fabric in a brief, whispering billow.
"Your humility will ruin you one day," Mr. Lan muttered fondly, the words laced with affectionate exasperation, gaze lingering on Wei's profile with the warmth of a mentor's quiet pride.
"You're the company's biggest name, yet you act like you're here to return library books."
"I prefer that," Weireplied simply, his voice steady, devoid of pride, holding only the quiet truth of someone who had never felt the need to stand in a spotlight he didn't ask for—the confession plain, unadorned, carrying the weight of self-imposed distance.
They crossed the street, the office building coming into view—tall glass reflecting the pale sky in vast, mirrored panels, a faint shimmer of frost clinging to the lower windows like delicate lace, the structure rising against the gray in sleek, unyielding lines.
As they approached the entrance, Mr. Lan slowed his steps just enough to shift the conversation into the direction he had been circling around since morning, pace easing to a near-halt, the snow's patter filling the brief lag.
"Wei," he began carefully, tone measured, eyes flicking sidelong with deliberate intent, "about your last book…"
Wei turned slightly, giving him the soft, undivided attention he rarely offered anyone else—an incline of his head, gaze steady and open, the winter light catching the subtle depth in his eyes.
"What about it?"
The warm air inside the office lobby welcomed them with a kind of quiet efficiency, the hum of heaters blending with the soft murmur of early conversations as employees moved through the hallways carrying tablets in gloved hands, folders tucked under arms, and steaming cups of morning coffee that trailed aromatic wisps—black, bold, laced with the faint bitterness of routine.
The polished floor reflected every step, stretching their silhouettes into long, fluid shapes that glided across the marble—shadows elongating in the overhead lights' glow, merging and parting with the flow of bodies.
Even though Cheng Wei rarely visited—perhaps once every few months, and even then only when absolutely necessary—people recognized him almost instantly. Not because he drew attention, but because he carried none of it; his presence was a calm that contrasted sharply against the busy energy of the office, a still point amid the shuffle, and that contrast alone made heads turn subtly, conversations dim for a heartbeat, eyes widen in quiet awe—glances stolen over monitors, whispers trailing in his wake like afterthoughts.
He walked beside Mr. Lan with the same composed grace he had shown outside, coat neatly draped over his arm, the wool folding in precise lines against his side; black turtleneck framing the line of his jaw, knit hugging the column of his throat in understated elegance; expression unreadable except for the faint softness that winter mornings always left on his features—a subtle easing at the edges, like frost yielding to tentative sun.
His gaze drifted toward the elevators without urgency—a silent, elegant awareness that he was stepping into a world that admired him from a distance but had never truly known him, the path unfolding familiar yet foreign, each polished tile a mirror to his measured tread.
Mr. Lan pressed the elevator button, the panel beeping softly under his thumb, glancing at the way employees' eyes followed Wei discreetly—quick shifts behind partitions, pauses in mid-stride, the air thickening with unspoken curiosity.
"You see?" he murmured under his breath, lips curving in a small, amused smile, voice pitched low for their shared bubble.
"Even walking through the lobby once is enough for them."
Wei's eyes flicked sideways for a moment, but his expression remained calm, neutral, serene in that way only true introverts mastered—a placid surface over depths undisturbed, the glance brief, assessing without engagement.
"They're just curious," he said quietly, hands folded loosely before him, fingers interlacing with casual poise.
"Fame doesn't mean much inside a building."
"It does when the star refuses all interviews and hides in his apartment writing masterpieces," Mr. Lan replied, half teasing, half sincere, the words tumbling with a conspiratorial lilt, eyes twinkling behind his lenses.
Wei didn't respond, but the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth suggested he had heard the compliment and filed it away somewhere he didn't intend to examine too closely—a micro-twitch, upward and ephemeral, vanishing before it could form.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, a melodic ding that cut the murmur cleanly, and they stepped inside, the threshold crossing like a veil drawn. As the doors slid shut, sealing them away from the quiet admiration of the lobby, Wei exhaled gently, as if leaving behind a temperature he wasn't used to standing in—the air inside warmer, closer, carrying the faint, metallic tang of recirculated breath.
Mr. Lan clicked the button for the 11th floor, the panel illuminating with a steady glow, his finger lingering a beat on the worn plastic.
The ascent was smooth, the hum of the elevator steady, cables whispering in their sheaths, and Wei watched the panel lights shift numbers one by one—1 to 2 in measured blinks, the ascent a quiet progression against the mirrored walls that reflected their dual forms in infinite regression.
His thoughts drifting quietly—not toward the meeting, but toward the fleeting warmth of the dream, that distant winter sunlight filtering through haze, the blurred outline of a boy his memory refused to reveal, features dissolving just beyond reach, leaving only the imprint of a touch, a laugh, a shared hush.
It was only when the elevator slowed that he pulled himself back into the present, the faint deceleration tugging at his balance, the chime heralding arrival like a punctuation to reverie.
To be continued...