Li Wei refreshed his inbox again, even though he already knew what was waiting.
One unread email. His pulse quickened maybe, just maybe
No.
"We regret to inform you…"
He didn't bother finishing it. Same script, different signature. He clicked "delete" and watched another sliver of hope disappear into digital ash.
Scrolling down, the rest of his inbox bled quiet disappointment. Payment reminders. Late fees. A red-labeled threat from the bank.
And there—near the bottom—was one from Xiaoyu. His daughter.
He hovered over it. His finger trembled slightly. But he didn't click. What would he say? That he was sorry? That he hadn't called because the silence between them felt safer than the truth?
He pressed delete.
He told himself it was mercy.
The blinking cursor on his manuscript pulsed like a heartbeat—still, stubborn, alive. The title glared at him:
Death is a Story That Ends Mid-Sentence
He'd typed that line months ago. Maybe a year. He couldn't remember anymore.
He stood up and stared out the window. Rain smeared the glass, turning the city into a blurry mess of lights and moving shadows.
People were out there. Living. Laughing. Failing. Trying.
He exhaled through his nose and sat back down, fingers hovering over the keys. But nothing came. No words. No fire. Just silence.
And silence, he thought, was how most stories ended. Not with a bang. Not with beauty.
But with a cursor, waiting.