Winter slipped down Haiyun Road like a cool ribbon—no snow, just that soft, damp chill that made scarves feel useful and paper lanterns look warmer than usual. The bell above the bookstore chimed once as Gu Ze Yan pushed the door open.
Inside was the usual hush: the smell of paper, the soft glow from lantern-shaped lamps, two students whispering about highlighters as if they were state secrets.
The counter, however, was empty.
The stool where she usually sat—chin propped, book open—was tucked neatly under. No cloud-shaped sticky notes. No stray hair caught in the lamp's light. Just the cash drawer, the date stamp, and an obedient pen.
Ze Yan paused a beat. His hand found his phone by habit.
WeChat — Lin Qing Yun
Gu Ze Yan: Are you making the shelves jealous without me?
He waited a moment longer than reasonable.
No reply.
He slid the phone away with a small, helpless smile. Funny—he'd spent years surrounded by people and had forgotten what a quiet room could do.
"Evening," a voice said, warm and amused. "Looking for someone?"
The bookstore manager stepped out from the back office, wiping ink from her fingers. Mid-forties, tidy bob, cardigan the color of oolong—she had the steady air of someone who remembered where every book slept.
"Coffee?" she added, already heading toward the tiny machine tucked in the corner.
"Please," he said.
"Black?"
"Black is fine."
He took the little table by the window—the one where the streetlight turned the floor into squares. The cup arrived with a curl of steam. He wrapped his hands around it and stared, not at the coffee, but at the empty space behind the register.
"Sunny's not in tonight," the manager said, more kind than nosy. "Before you ask."
He huffed a laugh, caught. "So obvious?"
She tilted her chin toward the counter. "The way you looked there first gave you away. Boys who come for discounts look at the SALE sign. Boys who come for Sunny look at the stool."
He accepted the teasing with a small bow. "Guilty."
"She swaps evenings. Part-time workers do that." The manager's tone stayed light. "The city is big, but schedules are bigger."
He nodded and pretended to study the foamless surface of his very serious black coffee. The truth sat quietly under his ribs: the room felt different without her. A little emptier. A little colder. He wasn't used to caring about that.
He stood to wander the aisles, more habit than purpose. Nonfiction: "AI and the Future of Work," "Data Ethics," "The Algorithmic City." Children's: the infamous fish poster that always got poked in the eye. Poetry: thin spines, dangerous pages.
He stopped at the shelf where she tended to read English, and the memory arrived like a friend slipping into the seat opposite.
The first time he saw her here, she was half-hidden behind Great Expectations, chin resting on her palm, lips moving like she was tasting the words. A customer asked for a title; she slid a scrap of paper into the book, walked them straight to the right shelf, recommended something better, and somehow returned to her page without looking. Efficient, exact, no wasted motion. Later it was Dostoevsky—too heavy for most. She read it like it was a river you could cross if you kept walking.
He smiled to himself, then shook it off like rain.
His phone stayed quiet.
"Sit. You look like you're about to challenge the philosophy section to a duel," the manager called, amused.
He returned to the window table and sat. The coffee was still warm; he drank and tasted a pinch of loneliness, which was not a flavor he usually ordered.
"Sunny's probably at one of her other jobs," the manager said casually, arranging a stack of new arrivals. "Warehouse mornings sometimes. Translation when the deadlines chase her. Tutoring if a family cries for help. Noodle house on weekends. Here most nights—if the world behaves."
He listened without interrupting.
"She's been like that a long time," the manager continued, still light. "Has a younger sister—bright girl, dorm student, always calls to say goodnight. Sunny's been working for that child's future since she was… mm, younger than I like to think about. Doesn't complain. Just arrives. Smiles. Organizes my chaotic shelves into better shelves." She paused, then added, "Reads heavy books for fun. That's how you know."
He swallowed a smile. "Knows what?"
"That she can carry heavy things," the manager said simply.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The knot under his ribs shifted from restless to… respectful. It made the coffee taste better.
A student sneezed. Somewhere near the back, a carton shifted like a polite thunderclap. A little boy wandered in with his grandmother, poked the fish on the poster (tradition), and wandered out again, completely satisfied with his day.
The manager eyed him with a small grin. "Don't worry. She'll be in again. If the world doesn't steal her first."
He nodded. "Then I'll compete with the world."
"Oho," the manager said, delighted. "Brave."
He lifted his cup in agreement. Brave—and a little ridiculous. But fine. He'd done scarier things than wait in a bookstore.
He set the cup down and tried to read the blurb on "The Algorithmic City." It slid off his brain like oil on water. He closed it and reached for a different spine. Same result. His reflection in the window looked like a man pretending to study while thinking about someone who wasn't there.
When he finally stood, the students had packed their highlighters and promises. The manager was balancing the tills with the expertise of a magician.
"Thank you," he said. "For the coffee. And the… weather report."
"Any time," she replied. Then, with a conspiratorial tilt, "Tell Sunny—when you see her—that this is not a bakery. She's not allowed to have bread for dinner three days in a row."
He chuckled. "Message received."
At the door, he hesitated, pulled his phone out, and typed.
WeChat — Lin Qing Yun
Gu Ze Yan: Manager says you're cheating on us with other jobs.
Gu Ze Yan: Verdict: punishment pending.
Gu Ze Yan: (Light sentence. Probably poetry.)
He watched the unsent dots that never came, then pocketed the phone and stepped into the mild winter air. The street felt friendly, even without her in it.
He didn't drive off immediately. He took the long way around the block and, without meaning to, slowed near her alley. The stairwell bulb did its usual dramatic flicker. He smiled at it like you smile at a neighbor's stubborn cat.
Tomorrow, he thought. If the bus is late and the world behaves.
He put the car in gear, heater humming softly, and let the city slide by—lanterns, scooters, sugar haw on sticks—thinking about a girl who read heavy books and made rooms lighter, and about the ridiculous, wonderful problem of wanting a smile that belonged to him alone.