The evening slipped into the city quietly, the way winter often did—without warning, without sound, without asking anyone if they were ready. Streetlights warmed up slowly, their glow spreading across the pavement like honey that refused to thicken. Cars hummed past in small intervals, their tires whispering secrets to the asphalt. A stray dog curled beside a bakery shutter, its fur dusted with the faint residue of the day's flour. People moved with the kind of tired pace that came from working too long and resting too little—coats pulled tight, scarves trailing like forgotten promises.
And in the middle of all this, Cheng Wei stood at the bus stop, hands tucked deep inside his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if the cold had reached through his coat and tapped his bones. The air bit at his exposed skin, carrying the sharp tang of impending frost, but he didn't mind. Not really. The chill was familiar, like an old friend who showed up uninvited but brought stories worth hearing.
"See you tomorrow with the draft, Cheng Wei."
Mr. Lan's voice carried a gentle concern—the kind adults had when talking to someone who rarely asked for help. He lingered by the car door, keys jingling softly in his gloved hand, his breath fogging the air between them.
Wei lifted his head a little, giving that small, polite smile he offered everyone. It was the one that said I'm fine without ever needing words. He dipped his chin respectfully, the gesture automatic, ingrained from years of quiet deference.
"Yes, Mr. Lan."
Mr. Lan hesitated, eyes scanning Wei from head to toe—taking in the thin wool coat that did little against the wind, the sneakers scuffed from too many late-night walks, the faint shadows under his eyes that spoke of deadlines and dreams unfinished.
"Come, sit in the car. I'll drive you home.Today's weather is too cold, and you aren't wearing anything warm. You'll catch a fever like this." There was a paternal edge to his tone, softened by the lines of worry etched around his mouth.
Wei shook his head slightly, voice soft but steady, like the rustle of dry leaves underfoot. "Thank you for your warm concern, Mr. Lan. But I'm fine. The bus will be here soon… the time's almost right."
A breath. A pause. A small sigh that hung in the air like smoke.
"Alright then," Mr. Lan relented, though his reluctance lingered in the way he adjusted his scarf. "Just… be safe, Cheng Wei. Text me when you get home, if you remember."
"You too, Mr. Lan. Have a safe drive."
The headlights stretched forward as the car pulled away, slicing through the dusk like golden knives. It left behind only the sound of winter wind brushing against metal railings—a low, mournful keen that seemed to echo the city's hidden sorrows. The silence that followed felt heavier—colder—like it had been waiting for its turn, patient and unforgiving.
Wei rubbed his hands together inside his pockets, chasing friction against the numbness creeping into his fingertips. His fingers felt stiff, almost wooden, as if the cold had borrowed them for a moment and forgotten to give them back.
"I think we'll get snow tonight," he murmured to himself, voice hardly more than a breath lost to the breeze. "The weather's colder than usual… numb almost. The weathercast didn't mention anything, but…"
As if the sky took offense at that casual prophecy, a single snowflake drifted down—lazy, deliberate—and touched his cheek. It melted on contact, a fleeting kiss from the heavens, cool and gone too soon.
Wei stilled.
His breath caught, suspended in his throat like a secret he wasn't ready to exhale.
He tilted his head upward, eyes tracing the invisible path where the flake had fallen. More followed, tentative at first, then bolder—a scatter of white confetti against the bruised purple sky.
Snow.
Soft, quiet, unannounced.
His eyes closed for a moment—not tightly, but gently, like someone who had forgotten how to rest and suddenly remembered. The world blurred at the edges, and in that suspended quiet, the past unfurled like a ribbon of silk.
"Wei Wei, look! Look at this snowman I made!"
The voice was bright, laced with that irrepressible laughter that could chase away any storm. He could almost see it: the lopsided figure in the park, carrots for eyes askew, a scarf pilfered from his own closet wrapped around its neck like a hug.
"Wei, smile… please? Just a little?"
A camera click, frozen in time. The way those words had coaxed the corners of his mouth upward, against his will, until the grin felt real. Real enough to ache.
"Wei, your fingers are freezing. Put your hands in my pockets."
Warmth. Not the fleeting kind from a heater or a cup of tea, but the deep, enveloping heat of another's body—calloused palms enveloping his, thumbs tracing idle circles over his knuckles. The scent of pine and mint gum, the brush of stubble against his temple.
"Wei, your face is turning so red—are you cold or shy?"
Teasing, always teasing, but with eyes that held galaxies of softness, pulling him in like gravity.
"Wei… winter suits you."
Whispered against his ear during a midnight walk, snow crunching under their boots, the world muffled and theirs alone.
"Xiao Wei."
The name rolled across memory like warm breath in cold air. It wasn't a whisper. It wasn't an echo. It was a presence—faint, blurred at the edges, but alive. Pulsing with the rhythm of a heart that had once beat in sync with his own.
Wei's lips parted unintentionally, as if he wanted to answer a voice that no longer existed in the world he lived in. The syllable formed on his tongue but it dissolved before it could escape, swallowed by the thickening flurry.
Wei's chest tightened, a familiar vise that he'd learned to breathe through. He opened his eyes, forcing the now into focus. The snow was falling steadier now, blanketing the bus stop in a hush that amplified every distant honk, every rustle of leaves. His reflection stared back from the shelter's glass—pale, hollow-cheeked, a ghost haunting his own skin.
Get on the bus, he told himself. Go home. Finish the draft. Forget—for tonight, at least.
But forgetting was a lie winter never bought. It clung, it layered, it buried everything under white until spring clawed its way back. And even then, the melt revealed scars.
Then, as if the universe had tired of his reverie, another voice cut in—sharp, mechanical, too real to ignore.
The bus.
Its lights washed across his face, harsh and yellow, forcing his eyes open fully. The engine growled low, a beast roused from slumber.
He blinked slowly.
Once.
Then again, chasing away the last vestiges of snow-kissed ghosts.
The warmth in his chest folded back into itself, a fragile origami bird retreating to its cage. The memory dimmed, retreating to the corners where it waited for the next trigger—the next flake, the next chill.
The present returned, insistent and ordinary.
The bus doors opened with a low hiss, exhaling a puff of heated air that smelled of diesel and damp coats. Passengers shuffled inside, murmuring about the weather, the traffic, the endless grind of another day done.
Wei stepped forward, one foot after the other, the snowflakes melting on his lashes like unshed tears. He found a seat by the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, watching the city blur into streaks of light and shadow.
As the bus lurched into motion, carrying him toward a home that felt emptier with each passing season, a single thought lingered, unbidden and sharp:
What if this winter never ends?
And in the quiet of his heart, An voice echoed one last time, soft as the falling snow: Then I'll find you in it, Wei. Always.