Dawn at the warehouse came with a wet, bone-sneaking cold. Forklifts beeped in reverse, breath steamed out of mouths like small ghosts, and the concrete floor sweated with dew that hadn't decided whether it was water or air. Cardboard stacked to the rafters drank in the damp; the metal roll-up doors clicked as they breathed.
Lin Qing Yun balanced a clipboard on her palm, pen tapping a steady beat against the margin. Fingerless gloves kept her knuckles warm enough to write.
"Seventy-two, seventy-three… Uncle Wu, don't skip that one. I see you."
Uncle Wu laughed, scarf looped high over his ears. "Sunny-jie, eagle eyes. Even the scanner respects you."
She nudged the box with the toe of her shoe and scribbled. "Then pay me in tea eggs tomorrow. Two."
"Three," Uncle Wu bargained, delighted. "One for bravery in winter."
The men around them chuckled; for a moment, the heavy work felt lighter. When no one watched, Qing Yun shook out her wrist, flexing against the ache. The smile slipped—just a heartbeat—before she put it back on.
A thermos lid clicked open somewhere, and the sweet-spicy smell of ginger-brown-sugar water drifted by. Someone shoved a heat pack down a sleeve. Pallets squealed. The day moved forward.
By afternoon the cold had softened to a clammy patience that clung to windows. The public library hummed with low heaters and the rustle of padded coats. Qing Yun tucked herself at a corner desk near a radiator that ticked like a polite clock. Her old laptop whirred, dictionary open, notebooks stacked; a clear bottle of hot water wore a knitted sleeve.
She murmured in English as her fingers tapped:
"Goods will be delivered upon full payment. The buyer shall…"
The librarian drifted past in a quilted vest, cheeks pink from a recent tour of the stacks. "Sunny, always working."
Qing Yun looked up with a quick smile. "If I stop, Auntie Zhu from the alley will scold me for being lazy."
"Then hurry and drink," the librarian said, wagging a finger at the bottle. "Hands like ice."
"Yes, ma'am." Qing Yun wrapped both palms around the bottle until the ache bled out, then bent to the glow again. Her phone buzzed once; Siyao's message bloomed:
Jiejie, I ate. Study group tonight. Goodnight! Don't stay up too late.
Her expression softened, winter light warming from the inside.
Good girl. Study hard. I'm proud of you.
Send.
Outside the fogged glass, leafless plane trees held colorless birds. Inside, English slipped into Chinese under her careful hand; a heater coughed and went on murmuring.
At five, the bookstore's bell chimed. Early winter dusk had already pressed its nose to the window; the lantern-shaped lamps fought back with honeyed light. A fabric door curtain kept the draft where it belonged. Qing Yun tied her apron, tucked a heat pack into her pocket, and lifted the till. Children in puffed jackets squealed at new picture books; a university student asked for a reference title; someone tucked into the armchair by the window and immediately fogged the glass with a contented sigh.
Qing Yun moved among them with familiar warmth, passing receipts, recommending paperbacks, rescuing a leaning stack. Her gaze, however, kept flicking to the door.
"Sunny," her coworker teased, chin propped on the counter, "you keep glancing like you're waiting for your dream customer. Should I prepare rose petals?"
Qing Yun laughed, brushing a windblown strand behind her ear. "If he comes, I'll make him buy the entire poetry shelf."
The bell chimed; it wasn't him. The strange, little emptiness in her chest turned over once and lay still. Don't expect; don't hope. She told herself what she always told herself. And yet—
Across the city, up where winter turned to pale glass and carpeted silence, Gu Ze Yan sat at the head of a long table. Investors in dark suits turned pages of contracts; porcelain cups bled steam that smelled like good leaves. The heat was set too high, drying the air to an expensive desert. He checked his watch; the minute hand moved like frost, slow and stubborn.
He always listened; today, the picture of a small shop on Haiyun Road kept overlaying the slides. He saw her there, bent over a thick novel, lips moving silently, a heat pack tucked in her pocket like a secret. He wanted to go. He wanted it more than closing a line item that would look perfect in a report.
When the meeting finally adjourned, he stood a fraction too quickly.
"Sir?" Chen Rui blinked, already rising. "Do you—"
"I'm busy," Gu Ze Yan said, already striding for the elevator. The doors closed on the staged warmth of the room and opened on the honest cold of a concrete garage.
Back at the shop, Qing Yun stacked the last pile of novels on the middle display. Outside, Haiyun Road's neon painted the window in blue and pink; the door curtain breathed with every entrance. She checked the wall clock, turned the key in the bottom lock, and exhaled through her scarf. He's not coming today.
She flipped the sign to Closing and glanced once more at the door just to prove to herself she wasn't waiting.
The bell chimed.
She turned. He stood in the entry, cold-flushed, sleeves pushed up, hair mussed by the damp night wind, breath still ghosting from the dash he'd made.
"I thought I'd missed you," Gu Ze Yan said, voice low with relief.
Surprise lifted into laughter. "You did. Almost. Another five minutes and I'd have charged late fees."
He let out a quiet, sheepish sound that qualified as a laugh. "Then I'll accept my punishment."
She tilted her head, teasing. "Buy me dinner."
"Done," he said immediately.
She blinked. "I was joking."
"I'm not," he replied.
Fifteen minutes later, they were walking under lanterns strung across Liangcheng's pedestrian street. Winter had polished the old stone pavement to a gleam; breath hung in the air like soft punctuation. Vendors called through steam: "Roasted chestnuts! Ginger tea! Handmade candy!" Families lingered; couples shared skewers; somewhere, a portable speaker played an old love song muffled by the cold.
Qing Yun's eyes lit at a small dessert stall where three squat pots simmered like warm planets. The wooden sign read: Red Bean Soup
"There," she decided. "Punishment paid."
They perched on little stools. Steam rose and drew veils between their faces, then parted again. The color look appetizing, tiny petals of osmanthus winking at the surface.
"Careful," she warned, spooning one big bite and cradling it to blow. "Winter weapons."
He took one too bravely, flinched as molten sesame reminded him of physics.
She burst out laughing, unable to help it. "Heroic! Your destiny with chili oil has evolved—now with sweet soup."
He surrendered her his paper cup of ginger tea without protest. "Worth it," he said after a beat, and meant the whole evening.
They ate slowly. The street noise folded soft around the pool of lantern light; the world smelled like sugar and fire. A puff of osmanthus drifted from somewhere and landed in her hair; he reached without thinking, then stopped, then let the moment go and watched it catch the light instead.
"You know," Qing Yun said, lightly, "people say red bean mean love and longing."
"Then it's exactly what I want," Gu Ze Yan answered, no hesitation, breath visible between the words.
For a moment she looked at him, spoon hovering, expression unreadable. Then she shook her head, smiling as if to scold him for his speed. "You're quick with words."
"Only when they're true," he said.
The street had thinned by the time they reached his car, the kind of clean, late cold that made sounds crisp. Inside, the heater breathed quietly; the windows fogged, then cleared. Qing Yun rubbed her hands near the vent; he pretended not to notice and angled it closer anyway.
"Thank you for the red bean soup," she said. "Best punishment."
"Best dessert," he returned.
They exchanged a look and both laughed—the shared warmth of two people who'd surprised themselves.
When the car stopped at her building, he reached for the handle. "I'll walk you up."
She shook her head, quick, gentle. "No need. The neighbors will turn it into a winter-long opera. And it's late—you should rest."
"I don't mind gossip," he said honestly.
"I do," she replied, smiling. "Drive safe, Mr. Gu."
He hesitated a beat, then leaned back. "Fine. But—before you go…" He lifted his phone, a half-helpless gesture. "I realized today I didn't even have your number. Couldn't tell you I was late. It was… inconvenient."
She laughed under her breath. "Modern tragedy." She unlocked her screen. "WeChat?"
Their phones buzzed—two small, bright sounds in the winter-quiet car. Lin Qing Yun appeared on his screen, simple and luminous. He looked at the characters longer than necessary.
"Good," he said softly. "Now I won't lose you so easily."
She waved, small and warm. "Good night, Mr. Gu."
"Good night, Sunny."
She slipped out into the stairwell air that smelled like detergent and cold tile. The door swung shut behind her; her name still glowed on his screen.
For the first time all day, the ache behind his ribs eased—not vanished, not conquered—simply warmed, the way ginger does when it finds its way to your center and sits there, patient and sure.