Wei unlocked his door and stepped into the familiar dimness of his apartment, the key's turn a soft, metallic click that echoed faintly before the latch caught with a subdued thud.
He didn't turn on the main lights—
he let the soft amber glow from the hallway spill in behind him for a moment, a warm intrusion that pooled on the threshold like liquid gold, illuminating the faint motes of dust suspended in the air and casting elongated shadows across the entryway floor.
Shoes off, slipped from his feet with unhurried care, placed neatly side by side on the mat, soles still dusted with the night's first snow.
Coat unbuttoned, the buttons yielding one by one under his fingers, then folded with care—draped over the hook by the door, its woolen weight settling into place with a whisper of fabric against wood.
Sleeves rolled up in one smooth motion, cuffs turning back in precise folds that exposed the pale skin of his forearms, the gesture fluid and ingrained, like the closing of a well-worn book.
Everything he did had a rhythm, almost ritualistic—
as if the silence inside these walls was something he respected, a sacred quiet he navigated with deliberate grace, each movement measured to honor the hush, the space between actions filled with the subtle creak of floorboards under his socks.
He moved into the kitchen, the linoleum cool and smooth underfoot, opened the fridge with a gentle tug that released a puff of chilled air scented faintly with citrus from forgotten peels.
And took out a glass bottle of cold water, condensation beading on its surface like tiny jewels, the glass fogged from within.
The chill bit the tips of his fingers, a sharp, insistent prick that lingered as he gripped it tighter, and only then did he realize how warm his hands had become—flushed from the walk's subtle exertion, the contrast blooming into awareness like a sudden thaw.
He drank slowly, tilting the bottle to his lips, letting the cold settle in his throat—a crisp, mineral slide that cooled from palate to chest, each swallow deliberate, drawing out the sensation until it grounded him fully in the room's stillness.
The apartment didn't feel empty.
It felt… paused.
As if something in the air waited for him to finish settling down, the molecules holding their breath, the faint tick of a distant clock suspended, the shadows in the corners expectant, lingering on the cusp of continuation.
Wei closed the bottle, the cap twisting with a soft snap, placed it on the counter with a muted clink against the tile, and rested his hands on the edge of the sink for a moment, palms pressing flat against the porcelain's cool curve, fingers splaying slightly as if to absorb the steady chill.
His eyes drifted to the window, where faint snowflakes pressed against the glass before sliding away—delicate imprints, star-shaped and ephemeral, melting into streaking trails that distorted the view beyond into watery veils.
"Shower first," he murmured to no one, the words low and uninflected, slipping from his lips like a private directive.
His voice blended into the quiet, vanishing almost immediately, absorbed by the walls and the waiting air, leaving only the echo of its timbre in his own ears.
The bathroom light washed over his face—sharp lines softened by tiredness, the overhead bulb's glow casting a gentle halo that blurred the angles of his jaw and cheekbones, hair dark and slightly dishevelled from the snow, strands tousled and damp where flakes had clung and thawed.
A few strands clung to his forehead, dampened by the residual mist from his breath.
He brushed them back absentmindedly, fingers combing through the thick locks with a light rake, the motion automatic, leaving his skin faintly warmed by the friction.
Steam filled the room as he showered, billowing up in thick, swirling clouds from the hot water's cascade, veiling the mirror in a opaque fog that muffled reflections and carried the clean, soapy scent of eucalyptus.
When he stepped out, it clung to him like fog, tendrils curling around his limbs and torso, making his eyelashes glisten with tiny droplets that caught the light in prismatic flecks, his skin flushed pink from the heat, towel draped loosely over his shoulders.
Back in the living room, the air cooler now against his damp warmth, he opened the small cabinet near his bookshelf, the hinges whispering as the door swung free, revealing rows of bottles nestled in shadowed ranks.
His fingers hovered over different bottles before selecting one without hesitation, the glass cool and familiar under his touch, label faded but evocative.
Winter Rose, 1998.
He didn't need to think to choose it, the decision instinctive, drawn from the well of habits etched deep.
He poured a glass, the liquid glugging softly into the crystal, the faint scent of dried petals rising in the warm air—a subtle, floral earthiness, redolent of pressed blooms and aged oak, unfurling like a memory coaxed from hibernation.
He carried it to the window, leaning lightly against the frame, the wood smooth and worn under his forearm, glass stem balanced loosely in his fingers.
Outside, the snow was falling harder now, coating the street in pale silver—a thickening blanket that smoothed the curbs and rooftops, muting the world below into a luminous hush, flakes swirling in denser eddies under the streetlamps' glow.
He tapped the glass gently with his thumb, not drinking yet, the nail clicking faintly against the rim, a rhythmic tic that echoed his pulse.
His breath made a small fog against the window, a transient bloom that obscured a sliver of the view before clearing with the next inhale.
"Looks heavier tonight," he said softly, almost as if speaking to the snow itself, his tone conversational, laced with a quiet intimacy directed at the drifting white beyond.
"I'll need something warmer tomorrow."
The thought passed through him gently, like a drifting feather—light, unweighted, settling for a moment before lifting away, leaving behind only the faintest imprint of anticipation in the settling quiet.