Lin Yuan had long since stopped measuring time by clocks.
Morning arrived not when the alarm rang, but when the light crept through the thin curtains and rested on the edge of the wooden table. The sound of the city was already there—cars in the distance, footsteps in the stairwell, a neighbor's radio murmuring something indistinct—but none of it urged him to move.
He lay still for a moment longer, breathing slowly, as though waiting for something to pass.
Only when the light shifted again did he sit up.
The room was small. Clean. Ordinary. A rented apartment on the third floor of an aging building, the kind that had seen several decades of residents come and go without remembering any of them. There was a kettle on the stove, a chair by the window, a shelf with a few old books whose pages had yellowed naturally, without care or preservation.
Nothing here suggested ambition.
Lin Yuan washed his face, boiled water, and brewed tea. The steam rose in thin, twisting lines, vanishing before it could touch the ceiling. He watched it quietly, his gaze following the way it dispersed—not abruptly, but as if it had simply decided to be elsewhere.
He had always liked that moment.
Some people liked mornings because they promised productivity. Others because they offered routine. For Lin Yuan, mornings were simply the point at which the world felt the least insistent.
Outside, the day went on.
A delivery truck stopped briefly in front of the building. Someone argued on the phone downstairs. Somewhere nearby, construction continued on a project that had already lasted longer than most people's patience.
Lin Yuan drank his tea.
He did not check his phone.
There was nothing waiting for him there.
He left the apartment not long after, locking the door behind him out of habit rather than concern. He did not carry much—just his keys, his phone, and a folded umbrella, though the sky was clear.
The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and old paint. As he descended, his footsteps were light, unhurried. People passed him occasionally—neighbors, strangers, faces he had seen before but never learned the names of.
They did not look at him twice.
Lin Yuan did not mind that.
Outside, the air was cool. The sun had risen fully now, but the warmth had not yet settled in. He turned toward the edge of the city, walking without a clear destination. He often did that. Walking, he found, was the simplest way to let the world exist without interfering with it.
The city gradually thinned.
Concrete gave way to narrower roads. Shops became fewer. Eventually, the buildings lowered, then stopped altogether, replaced by an open stretch of land that sloped gently toward a river.
Lin Yuan liked this place.
The river was not large, nor especially clean. Its water moved slowly, reflecting the sky in broken fragments. On some days, people came here to fish. On others, no one came at all.
Today, there was one person.
An old man sat near the bank, holding a fishing rod that looked older than most of the buildings Lin Yuan had passed. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, as if whether the fish bit or not mattered very little.
Lin Yuan slowed his steps.
The old man noticed him and smiled faintly, nodding in greeting. It was the kind of smile that came not from politeness, but from recognition—two people sharing the same quiet without agreement.
"Good morning," the old man said.
Lin Yuan nodded. "Good morning."
He did not ask if the man had caught anything.
Instead, he stopped a short distance away and looked at the river.
They stood like that for a while.
The water moved. A bird skimmed the surface briefly before disappearing downstream. Somewhere far off, a train horn sounded, faint enough to feel more like memory than noise.
"You come here often," the old man said eventually. It was not a question.
"Yes," Lin Yuan replied.
"I thought so." The old man smiled again. "People who hurry don't walk like that."
Lin Yuan did not respond.
The old man did not seem to expect him to.
After a moment, the fishing line twitched slightly, then went still. The old man did not adjust his grip.
"I don't really fish," he said, as though confessing something trivial. "Mostly I just sit."
Lin Yuan glanced at him. "That's fine."
The old man chuckled softly. "That's what I thought."
They spoke little after that.
When the old man's breathing grew uneven, Lin Yuan noticed—not with alarm, but with the same quiet attention he gave everything else. He did not comment on it. The old man noticed Lin Yuan noticing and waved a hand dismissively.
"Old body," he said. "It complains when it wants."
Lin Yuan nodded. "Bodies do that."
The old man studied him for a moment longer this time. "You're young," he said, then paused. "But you don't feel rushed."
Lin Yuan looked back at the river. "There's nowhere I need to arrive."
The old man laughed, genuinely this time. It turned into a brief cough, which he covered with his hand. When it passed, his smile remained, a little thinner.
"Good," he said. "That's good."
The sun climbed higher.
At some point, the old man set his fishing rod aside. He looked tired, but not unhappy. When he stood, his knees trembled slightly. Lin Yuan stepped closer, not touching him, simply standing within reach.
"Thank you," the old man said, though Lin Yuan had not done anything.
They walked together along the riverbank for a short distance. The path narrowed, the air growing cooler as mist from the water drifted closer.
When they reached a bend in the path, the old man stopped.
"I think I'll rest," he said. "Just for a bit."
Lin Yuan looked at him.
The mist was thicker here. The sounds of the city felt farther away.
"There's a quieter place," Lin Yuan said after a moment. His voice was even, as though he were suggesting shelter from rain. "If you'd like."
He did not ask where.
At his age, places mattered less than silence.
He only nodded.
"Alright," he said.
They took one more step forward.
The mist closed around them.
And the world, without ceremony, grew silent.
End of Chapter 1