There it was—the essence of him.
Famous, wealthy, admired, unreachable…
yet still someone who preferred silence over noise, simplicity over comfort, winter over warmth, the quiet pull of solitude threading through every choice like an invisible seam, binding the man to his own measured world, where acclaim was a distant echo and the true weight lay in the unspoken spaces between breaths.
After they finished discussing the draft and notes, the pages refolded with precise creases that aligned like folded memories, Wei stood, bowing his head slightly in thanks—a subtle dip, chin to chest, the gesture ingrained with quiet deference that spoke more of habit than formality, his dark hair catching the muted light in a faint sheen.
And Mr. Lan walked him to the elevator, their steps syncing in the hallway's hush, the older man's pace matching Wei's unhurried rhythm without effort, the corridor's walls reflecting their dual shadows in elongated strokes that trailed behind like reluctant companions.
Staff passing by slowed discreetly, some pretending to check their phones—thumbs scrolling aimlessly over screens, eyes flicking upward in stolen glances that lingered a fraction too long; others stealing looks they hoped he wouldn't notice, heads tilting just enough to trace his profile against the corridor's white walls, the air thickening with the subtle charge of unspoken recognition.
His presence didn't command attention—
it invited it, quietly, without intention, a subtle gravity that drew without force, like the hush after a snowfall settling over a restless landscape, muffling the clamor into contemplative still.
A young intern at the copier froze mid-task when Wei walked past, her eyes widening as if she had seen a ghost from a novel come to life—the machine's whir fading to background drone, her hand hovering over the tray, breath caught in the space between awe and disbelief, the warm scent of toner hanging heavy in her stalled exhale.
Another whispered to her friend with a mixture of awe and disbelief, the words low and hurried, "Is that...?" trailing into shared nods that bobbed like tentative waves; and somewhere behind them someone murmured, "That's him… that's really him…" the voice hushed, reverent, carrying on the air like a secret too heavy to hold alone, rippling through the hallway in faint aftershocks.
Wei heard none of it, or pretended not to, moving with the same calm, gentle step that carried him through the world as though he weighed nothing—boots placing softly on tile, each contact a muted pad that blended into the hum, coat draped over his arm in loose folds that swayed like pendulums slowed by frost, the air parting around him in undisturbed waves, leaving only the faint displacement of his passage.
Outside, the cold air hit him again—sharper now, slicing through the layers of his coat with a keen edge that bit at his exposed skin, the wind carrying the crystalline sting of fresh flakes that pricked like needles softened by distance, the sky's gray deepening to slate as the morning edged toward midday pallor.
His breath tightened slightly, catching in his throat with a faint constriction that pulled at the base of his lungs, and the familiar ache along his ribs pulsed in faint warning—a dull throb, deep-seated and insistent, radiating outward like an echo from bone to breath, a reminder etched in tissue from winters past.
He paused, closing his eyes for a moment, lids pressing down against the glare of reflected snow on the pavement, the world narrowing to the rush of blood in his ears and the chill's unyielding press, the flakes swirling in eddies around his ankles like hesitant dancers.
Winter was returning in its full form now,
and with it, old memories he didn't want but had learned to live with, surfacing like frost on a windowpane—beautiful in their clarity, painful in their persistence, layering over the present until the line between then and now blurred like breath on glass.
He exhaled, pulling his phone from his pocket, dialing his driver—the screen lighting his face in cool blue, thumb swiping with unhurried precision, the device cool against his ear despite the warmth within.
"Come pick me up,"he said quietly, voice low against the wind's murmur, the words clipped but steady, carrying no plea, only necessity, the line crackling faintly with the outside's interference.
He rarely requested this—only when the cold was too much for the day that lay ahead, the ache demanding concession without surrender, a rare yielding to the body's quiet veto.
Traffic was thicker than usual. Cars crawled along the snow-dusted road, the air filled with the soft crackle of tires against ice—a low, rhythmic grind that vibrated through the chassis, headlights cutting hazy beams through the flurry, taillights blooming red in the whiteout like distant embers.
Wei leaned back in the seat, fingers resting lightly on the coat in his lap, the wool warm from his body, folds yielding under his touch like a held breath, the leather creaking faintly as he shifted, the driver's partition a silent barrier.
A group of students walked past the car, their laughter muffled through the closed windows—bright and fragmented, bubbling up in shared bursts that fogged the glass briefly, distorted by the condensation. Two of them shared a single pair of earphones, leaning close as they walked, their heads almost touching, snowflakes clinging to their hair like fleeting crowns, melting into dark strands under the streetlamp's glow, the cord trailing between them like a lifeline. They were smiling at something only they could hear, shoulders brushing in casual intimacy, breaths mingling in white puffs that trailed like smoke signals of youth.
And for one heartbeat—
one sharp, terrifyingly familiar heartbeat—
To be continued...