The following evening, Jian pushed the café door open, the little bell above chiming softly. He liked this hour—quiet, not too crowded, with the golden hue of the sunset slipping in through the windows. The café was his safe space, where he could momentarily forget the debts, the father who leached from him, and the emptiness of his small rented apartment.
He ordered the same black coffee, found a corner seat, and opened his notebook. His handwriting was neat, disciplined, as if putting his thoughts in order might give him control over the chaos of his life.
But tonight, he felt it.
The weight of someone's gaze.
Jian tried to ignore it, flipping a page, pretending to be absorbed in words. But the feeling lingered—hot, suffocating, like invisible fingers wrapped around his throat.
Finally, he looked up.
There he was again.
The same man from yesterday.
The stranger sat at the far end, his posture sharp, commanding, as though the café itself bent to accommodate him. Dark suit, broad shoulders, eyes burning with an intensity Jian couldn't decipher. He wasn't reading, not even sipping his drink—just sitting there, watching.
Jian's hand tightened around his pen.
(Why me? Why is he staring at me?)
He tried to lower his gaze again, but the man stood, walking toward him with steady, deliberate steps. Jian's heartbeat thudded in his ears, his pen slipping slightly from his grip.
The stranger stopped at his table. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, in a voice deep and controlled, he said:
"You come here every evening."
It wasn't a question.
Jian forced himself to meet the man's eyes. They were darker up close, like a storm about to break. Something about them felt… familiar. But no memory surfaced.
"Yes," Jian replied cautiously, "I like the quiet here."
A faint smirk curved the man's lips. He leaned forward slightly, his presence overwhelming. "Then I suppose I'll be seeing you often."
Before Jian could respond, the man straightened, gave a lingering glance, and returned to his table—never once breaking eye contact.
Jian swallowed hard, his chest tightening.
He didn't know this man.
And yet… why did his voice sound like something buried deep in his memory?
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