The Morning sun in Liangcheng arrived thin and patient, slipping through gauzy curtains and pooling pale light over a room that never quite warmed. Laundry dangled from bamboo poles on the balcony, stiff with damp; the air smelled faintly of detergent and boiled rice.
Lin Qing Yun rose early, as always. She set rice to steam, the lid clinking softly as a ribbon of heat fogged the cold kitchen window. She rinsed a small bundle of greens for later, wrung a cloth, and scrubbed the tiled floor until it caught the morning like a shy mirror. Her breath made brief ghosts when she stood near the open balcony door.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She wiped her hands on a towel, picked it up—and blinked.
Gu Ze Yan (WeChat):
Did you burn your tongue too? Should I bring medicine?
For a second she only stared, the curve of a smile arriving before she caught herself. She wasn't used to waking to someone else's concern. Not anymore. She set the phone down, letting the steam from the rice warm her fingers, and shook her head with a quiet laugh that melted into the kitchen's small breath of heat.
Afternoon in the usual library while she's doing her best to translate thousand words of english with her old laptop. Her phone chimed—the special tone she set for her sister.
She answered immediately. "Siyao?"
Her sister's voice came bright and fast, like a warm current. "Jiejie! Guess what—top score in math again! Teacher said if I keep this up I can join the competition team."
Qing Yun's voice gentled, a smile audible. "Of course. My Siyao never loses."
"It was close," Siyao admitted. "There's this boy—almost as good as me. Almost."
"You'll beat him next time," Qing Yun said lightly.
A beat of silence; then Siyao turned mock-stern. "Jiejie, did you eat lunch properly? Not just bread again, right?"
Qing Yun coughed. "...Define properly."
"Aha! I knew it. You skipped."
"I didn't skip. I had baozi."
"Baozi doesn't count! You always scold me about resting, but you don't take care of yourself either. Hypocrite!"
Qing Yun laughed, shaking her head though her throat tightened with warmth. "Alright, alright. I'll cook something nice tonight."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
A softer rustle on the line, then: "Jiejie… sometimes I study hard because of you. I want to be like you."
The words landed deep. Qing Yun blinked rapidly, focusing on the steam line climbing her bottle. She kept her tone light. "You'll surpass me soon. Then I'll live off my little sister's brilliance."
"Deal!" Siyao's grin was audible. "But you have to take care of yourself until then."
"I will," Qing Yun said, meaning it for her sister's sake. "Go on—sleep early tonight."
"See you soon, jiejie."
"Take care, Siyao."
She ended the call and sat a moment in the pocket of quiet winter made. Outside, plane trees held their pale coins of leaves; inside, she closed the laptop with steady hands.
Across Liangcheng's glass spine, Gu Ze Yan's office held a different winter: air too warm, too dry, the kind that made you miss cold. He was supposed to be reading investor reports. Instead, he scrolled back to a single message that still had no reply, the screen light cool against his palm.
"Boss."
Chen Rui appeared with an armful of folders, winter wind still tucked into his hair. Mid-twenties, sharp and neat, he set the stack down and squinted at the phone. "If you glare at that any harder, it's going to apply for workers' compensation."
Gu Ze Yan didn't look up. "Do your job."
"I am." Chen Rui tapped the contracts, then leaned in with theatrical tragedy. "But I've never seen due diligence make a man smile. Unless…" His eyes widened. "Is our CEO reading love poetry hidden in the financial statements?"
The phone buzzed. Gu Ze Yan's gaze flicked down; the corner of his mouth shifted, small and treacherous.
Chen Rui clutched his chest. "He smiled. Heaven help us. Someone alert the shareholders—the great Gu has fallen. Love is the ultimate algorithm."
Gu Ze Yan finally looked up. The look was winter-clear.
Instant obedience replaced comedy. "I meant," Chen Rui corrected flawlessly, "your personal investments are diversifying beautifully. Flawless strategy, sir."
Silence.
Gu Ze Yan picked up a pen, set it down.
Chen Rui bowed himself out, muttering, "Unbelievable… all it took was WeChat. We live in a golden age."
Evening at the bookstore brought winter in with every chime of the bell: a gust of damp air, a scatter of breath, puff coats shedding their chill by the door curtain. The lantern-shaped lamps cast honey over spines and faces. Qing Yun stacked new novels, the warmth from Siyao's call still tucked somewhere behind her ribs.
"Sunny," her coworker teased, "your phone keeps making you smile. Did you meet a prince last night?"
She laughed, tucking hair behind her ear. "No prince. Just tangyuan."
Her phone buzzed again.
Gu Ze Yan (WeChat):
Do you only punish me with red bean, or should I prepare for other penalties?
Her lips twitched.
Qing Yun:
Punishments are custom-tailored. Be prepared.
His reply landed almost immediately.
Gu Ze Yan:
Then I look forward to being punished.
She hid her laugh behind the till.
"Sunny, you're glowing again," her coworker accused.
"I always glow," she said loftily, and slipped the phone away.
The bell chimed.
A man in a neat jacket approached the counter, still wrapped in a scarf. "Sunny, right? You recommended me a novel last week. I came to thank you."
Qing Yun smiled politely. "Glad you enjoyed it. Looking for another book?"
"No, no." He leaned in, fingers drumming, winter-pink at his ears. "Actually, I was hoping to get your—"
The bell chimed again; a small rush of cold swept in with it.
Gu Ze Yan stepped inside, dusting his shoulders, tall and clean against the warm bookstore light. He paused at the sight of her bent toward the other man. His expression didn't change; something flickered anyway, brief as a draft that makes the lamps nod.
The air shifted—subtle, like the moment before a snow that Liangcheng never quite gets, when the city holds its breath and pretends it remembers how.