Chapter 2: The Photographer
The next morning, Lin Wei woke to the sound of bells.
They weren't electronic alarms or car horns, but the soft chime of yak bells carried by the wind. She sat up, the thin quilt slipping from her shoulders, and blinked at the light spilling through the curtains. Morning here was sharper, brighter, as though the sun had been polished overnight.
For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the scent of butter tea wafted in from the kitchen downstairs, and reality settled: she was far from the city, on the edge of a plateau where the sky touched the earth.
And somewhere out there was the man with the camera.
She hadn't expected to think about him again. But as she tied her hair and laced her shoes, the image of him standing against the horizon replayed itself in her mind. His words too: "You fit right into the frame."
Ridiculous. They hadn't even exchanged names. And yet, she found herself wandering back toward the fields after breakfast, drawn by some restless curiosity she couldn't explain.
The ridge was empty this time. The grass swayed in the wind, but no figure stood against the sky. She almost turned back—until a voice called out from behind her.
"You're early."
She spun around. He was leaning against a stone wall, camera strap hanging loosely around his neck, sunlight cutting sharp lines across his face.
Lin Wei cleared her throat. "I didn't know this was your spot."
"It isn't," he said with a shrug. "The plateau doesn't belong to anyone. But it's kind enough to share."
His tone was easy, unhurried. He walked closer, stopping a comfortable distance away. For the first time, she noticed his eyes—dark, but softened by something warmer than the mountain light.
"I'm Chen Yu," he said simply.
"Lin Wei." Her voice came out steadier than she expected.
He nodded as though filing the name away, then raised his camera. "Mind if I take another?"
She stiffened. "Of me?"
"Of you in the plateau," he corrected. "Not you in a city suit, not you in an office chair. Just you, here."
She hesitated. She wasn't used to being the subject of anyone's lens. In the city, photographs were curated, filtered, calculated—meant for resumes or social media. But here, there was no stage, no polished backdrop. Just grass, sky, and a stranger's gaze.
"Why?" she asked finally.
Chen Yu tilted his head. "Because when people leave this place, they forget. Photos help them remember. The plateau deserves that."
His words settled over her like the wind—gentle but impossible to ignore. Against her better judgment, she nodded.
The shutter clicked. Once. Twice. She tried to hold still, but his expression made her uneasy—not because it was harsh, but because it was intent, as though he was seeing more than she meant to show.
When he lowered the camera, she found herself strangely breathless.
"You don't look like someone who travels much," he remarked.
She arched a brow. "And you look like someone who never stops traveling."
He grinned. "Fair enough."
They walked together along the ridge, their steps crunching against loose gravel. He spoke lightly, telling her how he had been drifting for years—across deserts, jungles, coastlines. He photographed not just landscapes but the lives entwined with them: shepherds chasing herds, fishermen mending nets, children chasing kites in dusty courtyards.
"What about you?" he asked.
Lin Wei hesitated. "I… work in finance."
He chuckled softly, not mockingly but with genuine curiosity. "Numbers and skyscrapers. No wonder you came running to the mountains."
"I didn't run," she corrected quickly, though her voice lacked conviction. "It's just a vacation."
"Mm." His smile held something she couldn't quite decipher. "Sometimes vacations tell us more about what we're running from than what we're looking for."
The path narrowed, leading them to the edge of a small cliff. Below stretched a valley painted in gold by the morning sun. Chen Yu crouched, adjusting his lens, utterly absorbed.
Lin Wei watched him work. His movements were steady, almost reverent, as if each frame carried weight. She realized then: he wasn't just wandering for pleasure. He was chasing something—capturing pieces of the world before they vanished.
When he finally lowered the camera, he caught her staring.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, heat rising to her cheeks. "You just… look different when you're working."
"Different good or different bad?"
She hesitated. "Different… focused."
Chen Yu laughed, brushing dust from his hands. "I'll take that as a compliment."
They started back toward town as the sun climbed higher. Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Lin Wei realized she didn't feel the usual pressure to fill every gap with words. The plateau filled it for them—with wind, with bells, with sky.
When they reached the fork in the road, he paused. "I'll be heading further west tomorrow. There's a lake that reflects the stars at night. You should come."
Her instinct was to decline. She had deadlines waiting, messages piling up, and a flight back to the city already booked. But the invitation lingered like the aftertaste of butter tea—unexpectedly sweet.
"I'll think about it," she said.
Chen Yu's smile widened, as if he already knew her answer.
That night, lying in her small room at the inn, Lin Wei stared at the ceiling. The city still tugged at her, like invisible threads trying to reel her back. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was sunlight glinting off a camera lens, and the way a stranger's voice had said, "You fit right into the frame."
She turned restlessly in bed.
And when she finally drifted to sleep, her dreams were not of office towers or boardrooms, but of a vast lake beneath a sky spilling with stars.
Tomorrow, she'll have to decide: return to her world, or step into his.