The apartment was still filled with steam from the shower, the air warm enough to soften even the sharpest edges of winter—a hazy veil that clung to the walls and furniture, muting the outlines of bookshelves and the faint gleam of the window's frost-laced pane, turning the space into a cocoon of suspended warmth. Droplets of water slid down Cheng Wei's neck, cool trails that traced the curve of his collarbone before disappearing beneath the collar of the simple black shirt he had pulled on without fully drying himself, the cotton absorbing them in dark, irregular blooms that spread like ink on rice paper, as though the act of reaching the desk had been more urgent than comfort, the damp fabric a secondary skin against the residual heat of his body.
The scar on his side still tingled faintly, carrying with it the warmth of a memory he had avoided for too many winters—a subtle pulse, like a vein under frost, evoking the ghost of pressure long faded: the echo of breath against his skin, hot and ragged in the cold night; the touch of a hand that should have vanished with childhood, fingers calloused yet tender, pressing with a desperation that defied the years; the shape of a voice that insisted on returning now, after all these years of silence, low and fractured, weaving through the steam like a thread pulled from unraveling wool.
He sat down slowly, his chair sinking under him with the quiet familiarity of a longtime companion—the wood creaking in a low, reassuring groan, the cushion yielding to the contours of his frame, enveloping him in its worn give, as if the piece of furniture itself remembered every late night and unresolved draft.
The lamp cast a soft pool of amber light over the desk, illuminating the blankness of the screen waiting before him—a golden halo that spilled across scattered pens and a half-empty mug from mornings past, the glow warm against the encroaching dusk outside, where the sky had deepened to indigo, flakes visible in their descent like silent emissaries.
For a long moment, Wei didn't move.
He simply breathed in and out, steady, controlled, as if reminding himself that he was still here, still present, still capable of facing the weight that pressed gently but insistently at the edges of his consciousness—the inhales deep and measured, filling his lungs with the steam-scented air; the exhales slow and even, fogging faintly before the warmth claimed them, each cycle a deliberate tether to the now, grounding the swirl of resurfaced fragments.
Then his fingers touched the keyboard.
Not typing.
Just resting.
The keys cool and unyielding under his pads, the faint ridges familiar from countless sessions, a tactile map of creation paused at the brink. A single droplet of water slid from his wrist and fell onto the desk, leaving a small dark circle on the wood—a soft plink that echoed in the hush, the moisture seeping into the grain like a tear absorbed by earth. Somehow, that tiny sound—almost nothing, a mere punctuation in the quiet—nudged something inside him that had been locked far too long, a door creaking on hinges rusted by time, the droplet's impact rippling outward in unseen waves through his chest.
He exhaled.
A slow, patient breath that carried years of unspoken things—deep from the diaphragm, releasing in a languid stream that stirred the steam into faint eddies, the air before him shimmering briefly, laden with the invisible freight of what-ifs and why-nots, regrets folded small and carried like stones in a pocket.
And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, a voice meant for no one but himself, he said:
"…I will write it."
His eyes softened, the words lingering in the warm air like a quiet promise, the timbre low and resonant, vibrating through the steam to settle against the walls, the declaration simple yet seismic, a vow uttered to the empty room and the waiting page.
"After all these years…"
A pause, deep as the winter outside, the silence stretching like the hush between flakes, heavy with the accumulation of seasons unmarked, the lamp's light flickering once as if in acknowledgment.
"…I should let it out, shouldn't I?"
A small laugh followed—not a happy one, but the kind that escapes after carrying pain for years. A laugh edged like a knife that never comes out all at once, only sinks deeper with time, stretching the sorrow longer and sharper instead of easing it.
He clicked the mouse once, the button yielding under his thumb with a crisp click that pierced the hush, the cursor's blink halting as the new document opened, blinding white, empty, untouched—a silence waiting to be filled, the expanse vast and unmarred, pixels glowing like fresh snow under moonlight, inviting the first mark without demand.
Cheng Wei leaned closer, fingers hovering again, breath steadying, spine straightening with a resolve that didn't look dramatic, didn't look heavy—just true, the arch of his back aligning fluidly, shoulders settling into poise, the damp shirt clinging to his skin in cooling patches that grounded him further.
Outside, snow continued falling in gentle, relentless waves, as if the world itself understood what was beginning flakes accumulating in thicker drifts against the sill, the wind's low moan underscoring the isolation, the city beyond a blurred tapestry of lights haloed by the flurry, winter's breath fogging the glass in irregular blooms.
Inside, under the soft glow of his lamp, the blank page shone quietly, the screen's luminescence casting his reflection in faint overlay—eyes shadowed, jaw set in subtle determination, the scar's hidden line a silent co-author beneath the fabric.
And with that—
Act 1 ended.
With a man facing the past, the keyboard's keys now pressing under tentative strokes, words emerging haltingly at first—fragments of a night long buried, the boy's voice transcribed in prose, the scarf's crimson rendered in ink.
A document open, cursor advancing in rhythmic leaps, the narrative uncoiling like a held breath released.
A winter waiting to speak, its chill seeping through the cracks, urging the story forth from hibernation.
The first line formed: The snow fell as if it knew we wouldn't last the night.
And in that sentence, the dam cracked—not with flood, but with the steady seep of truth, the page filling line by line, the steam slowly dissipating as the words took shape, memory yielding to manuscript, the apartment's warmth a fragile bulwark against the season's call.
Wei typed on, the clack of keys a new rhythm in the hush, each stroke a step toward the thaw he hadn't known he craved, the scar's tingle fading into the flow, the boy's laugh echoing now in syntax rather than silence.
Winter watched from the window, patient as ever.
But inside, the story breathed.
To be continued...