The street was immersed in a golden silence, as if the night had learned to whisper. The lamplight streamed through the tree branches like threads of yellow silk, and the warm breeze carried the subtle scent of leaves and a day slowly saying goodbye.
The little eatery on the back street felt like a fragment from another time — a dark wooden façade, faded red lanterns swaying lazily, and a sign in worn brushstrokes that seemed to guard ancient secrets. Inside, the warmth was gentle. The lights, soft as rice paper. And the air… filled with the sweet aroma of miso, ginger, and something that smelled like home.
— Here, said Xiaoqing, entering first and pointing to a table by the wall, where old plum blossoms were painted in black ink over an ochre background.
Yuyan hesitated for a brief moment. Her eyes wandered across the room like someone searching for the right place not with her feet, but with her heart. When Xiaoqing pulled out the chair on the left, Yuyan gave a nearly imperceptible nod — and sat beside her friend. Far from him.
Wen sat across from them with the calm of someone who always observes before acting. He didn't seem uncomfortable. But between them, there was a held-back silence — the kind made of uneven breathing, of a song still looking for its rhythm.
The waitress approached with a notepad and a gentle, almost maternal smile.
— The usual? — she asked, leaning slightly toward Xiaoqing.
— Yes. Rice soup with egg… and green tea.
Then her eyes turned to Yuyan and Wen.
Yuyan touched the menu more out of habit than indecision. Her cheeks already betrayed what she hadn't yet named.
— Udon soup with mushrooms… and chrysanthemum tea, please.
Wen looked up, as if that order had echoed somewhere inside him.
— The same soup — he said, his voice low but steady. — Jasmine tea, please.
The waitress nodded with a brief motion and walked away.
Xiaoqing smiled, crossing her chopsticks over an empty bowl of future memories.
— Look at that… same dish. Only the tea is different. Feels like something out of a script: the same at heart, different in detail.
Yuyan lowered her eyes, fiddling with the still-wrapped chopsticks.Wen simply adjusted his glasses, composed.
— Maybe… just a coincidence.
— Or maybe — insisted Xiaoqing, like someone who senses the scent before the flower — you prefer the same kind of warmth… just through different paths.
Yuyan tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers hovered over the fabric of the tablecloth. Wen glanced at her from the side. And for a moment, he forgot the conversation, the restaurant, the lively friend beside him. All that existed was that gesture. And the silence between them.A silence that wasn't empty — it was full of waiting.
But he said nothing.
The food arrived shortly after, brought by a waitress in a floral apron and tiny steps, like someone already familiar with the rhythm of quiet nights.
The udon soup steamed in deep bowls, its golden broth sprinkled with scallions and dark mushrooms that floated like autumn petals. The steam rose in slow, delicate spirals, as if trying to take part in a conversation yet to begin. The chopsticks rested on small porcelain leaf-shaped holders, like brushes waiting for their first stroke.
Xiaoqing's bowl, shallower, held rice submerged in a clear broth, with soft pieces of egg cooked by immersion. She looked at the meal approvingly and commented, without hesitation:
— Looks nice today.
She began mixing the rice with her chopsticks, practiced, without ceremony — like someone who already understood that beauty doesn't need fanfare to be enjoyed.
Yuyan adjusted her bangs with her fingers, almost involuntarily, and whispered a quiet thank-you.The chrysanthemum tea in front of her had the color of aged honey. A few petals floated on the surface, tracing invisible delicacies. Wen's tea — jasmine — was lighter, translucent, with a scent that evoked a garden after the rain. His pale blue cup looked deliberately chosen — though it probably wasn't.
The first sip of soup broke part of the ice. The silence at the table gave way to small exchanges.
Xiaoqing spoke about her shift — an elderly patient who'd confused her medication with candy.Wen smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. He didn't say much. But he listened. As always.
Yuyan listened more than she spoke. That was her natural way of being: reading the silence between words, the tone of voices, the rhythm of pauses.
Then she coughed. Lightly.A firmer piece of mushroom had demanded more attention than expected. She brought a hand to her chest with discretion. It wasn't serious, but her body asked for a pause.
And before she could fully compose herself, something slid across the table.
A glass of water.Close enough to be reached without effort.She looked up.Wen was still lightly resting his fingers on his own glass, eyes lowered, as if the gesture didn't belong to him.But it did.
Yuyan took the glass with both hands — like someone accepting more than just water. She drank slowly, in silence. Then, she tilted her head slightly. A small gesture — yet full. The simplest way of saying thank you, when you don't want to break the delicacy of the moment.
Wen didn't answer with words.But he smiled. Not with his lips.With his eyes.
Xiaoqing kept talking, now about a new nurse who had mixed up a patient chart. She didn't notice — or pretended not to notice — what had just been drawn between the two.
Yuyan picked up her chopsticks again, now with slower movements. Then, as if letting something slip that had long been ready, she murmured:
— It reminds me of my grandmother's broth… a bit spicier, but with the same kind of care.
Wen looked at her. Truly looked.
— Can care have a taste?
She hesitated. Thought. Then replied:
— I think so. When it's made slowly… it lingers.
He didn't answer. But he kept the phrase — as if folding it like a note and placing it close to his chest."When it's made slowly… it lingers."Like everything that begins to dwell deep — in memory, and in the heart.
Yuyan's bowl was already halfway empty when Xiaoqing, eyes gleaming with anticipation, set her chopsticks across the edge and rested her chin on her hands, elbows firmly on the table — like a child about to share a mischief.
— Professor Wen… may I ask a few indiscreet questions?
Wen looked up, curious. Yuyan, beside him, paused the movement of her chopsticks and glanced at him — like someone silently apologizing for her friend in advance.
— You can try, he replied, with a faint curve of his lips.
— Before the personal ones, a professional question: what exactly do you do… besides teaching?
Wen leaned back slightly in his chair. His fingers still touched the rim of the teacup.
— I'm a biochemist by training. I work with clinical diagnostics and applied research — especially on degenerative diseases. I also coordinate a small lab at the university.
Xiaoqing looked at him with genuine interest.
— Wow. That explains the lecture today. But… how do you manage to do all of that at once?
Wen made a light gesture with his hand, as if sweeping complexity aside.
— When you don't have many distractions outside of work… time opens up.
Yuyan looked away at that moment. Not because of what he said — but because of how he said it. Calmly, but without hiding the emptiness beneath the surface.
Naturally, Xiaoqing went deeper.
— And now… the classic question: how old are you, Professor?
— Thirty-two.
— Really? I would've guessed twenty-eight… or forty. You have that kind of timeless vibe.
Wen let out a soft laugh — brief, but genuine. Like an unexpected breeze in a quiet hallway.
— I suppose that's a compliment?
— It is. Totally. — She rested her chin on her hands again. — Do you have any siblings?
The question landed deeper than it seemed.Yuyan stirred her tea slowly. Wen took a little longer than before to answer.
— No. I grew up… alone.
His voice didn't waver. But there was a kind of serenity there that didn't match lightness.A kind of ancient silence behind his words.
— Alone as in… an only child?
Wen looked at his jasmine cup, then at Yuyan's, which still let out a faint thread of warmth.
— Not exactly. But I prefer to say it that way. It's simpler.
Xiaoqing was about to say something, but stopped.There was something in that answer — "It's simpler" — that seemed to carry too many layers to unfold over a dinner table.
Yuyan lowered her eyes, slowly.As if gently signaling her friend to stop digging.
Xiaoqing, perhaps trying to lighten the air, resumed with a mischievous smile:
— And… are you dating anyone?
Yuyan almost dropped her chopsticks.Wen looked at her — or rather, he observed her reaction before answering.A pause that seemed to speak louder than any words.
— No. I never really learned… how to do that right.
The answer wasn't bitter. Nor rehearsed. It was simply… honest.
Yuyan felt the sentence move through her slowly — like the melody of an old song that plays somewhere long forgotten.
Xiaoqing leaned forward with the ease of someone who doesn't quite know the limit of boldness:
— Yuyan's terrible at it too. But she writes about it beautifully.
Yuyan shot her a glare, cheeks fully flushed.
— Xiaoqing…
— What? It's true. She writes the kind of stories that make you cry on the bus without knowing why.If you ever read them… you'll understand everything she doesn't say.
Wen smiled. And this time, he looked at Yuyan a little longer.
— I'd love to read them.
Yuyan swallowed hard. Looked down. But didn't run from the moment.She smiled too — the kind of smile that only blooms when someone sees you, truly, for the first time.
The restaurant was slowly emptying, as if the night itself had begun to withdraw its gestures.The steam from the soup had left only a soft trace in the air, and the teacups, now almost empty, still held the warmth of what had been said — and what hadn't.
Xiaoqing finished her last sip of tea, stretched her arms slightly, and reached for her phone from the inner pocket of her coat.
— What time is it? — she murmured, frowning at the glowing screen.
— 10:15 p.m.
Yuyan lifted her head, suddenly alert.
— The last bus leaves at 10:45, right?
— That is, if it's not running early, her friend replied, already gathering her chopsticks in a hurry.
Before either of them could call the waitress, the woman approached with a calm smile and quietly cleared the empty dishes.
— It's all taken care of, she said, casting a brief glance in Wen's direction.
Yuyan looked at him, surprised.
— But… we didn't even ask for the check.
Wen adjusted his glasses with a composed gesture.
— I asked while you were distracted with your tea.
She lowered her gaze. Her voice came out soft, almost a whisper:
— You didn't have to.
— I know.
Xiaoqing smiled. She didn't comment — but her eyes caught the gesture, like someone noticing an invisible thread forming between two people about to touch.
As they stepped out of the eatery, the street welcomed them with a silence stitched by a gentle breeze. The red lanterns swayed lazily under the eaves, and the elongated shadows on the damp asphalt seemed to whisper among themselves.
Xiaoqing stopped on the sidewalk, eyeing the bus stop across the street. The lights were off.
— Well… I missed it. And tonight I have zero energy for philosophical night walks.
She turned to Wen with a smile that mixed playfulness and practicality:
— Professor, can I add you on WeChat? Since we're… soup companions now.
Wen took out his phone naturally and opened the QR code.
— Of course.
Xiaoqing scanned it quickly, then turned to Yuyan with the same casual flair of someone handing over a dessert spoon.
— You too, right? We're all here. No reason not to.
Yuyan hesitated. The gesture was simple. But for her, every approach required courage.
— You don't have to… — she tried to say, but her voice came out soft, without strength.
Xiaoqing arched an eyebrow, teasingly:
— Don't be shy. He already paid for dinner. A QR code is the least you can do.
Wen said nothing. He simply watched her — not with expectation, but with patience.Like someone holding a door open, without rush for it to be crossed.
At last, Yuyan took out her phone, her hands subtly trembling, and scanned the code.The screen lit up for a moment:Wen Zhaonan.She didn't say anything. Just accepted.
— Thank you, she murmured.
— It was a pleasant dinner, he said softly.
Xiaoqing looked up at the sky, then at the time, letting out a resigned sigh.
— Well… it's official. We missed it.
Wen simply replied:
— I can drive you both home.
He said it like someone offering an umbrella on a drizzly afternoon — without fuss, but with care.
Yuyan instinctively stepped back, almost by reflex.
— You really don't have to go to the trouble…
But Xiaoqing was already waving her hand, decisive:
— Perfect. A ride solves everything. Let's go.
Yuyan still hesitated. She crossed her arms gently.It wasn't fear — it was that kind of pause that happens when the heart moves before the mind.
Wen looked at her with the same calm as always.
— It's just a ride, Lin Yuyan.
She held his gaze for a moment. And in that moment, it felt as if time had paused just to hear her answer.Then she lowered her eyes, took a quiet breath, and nodded.
— Alright.
And so, the three of them walked down the sidewalk.The night seemed to watch them, quietly.As if it already knew that this short walk to the car would be the beginning of something — not yet named, but already taking shape.
The street followed them with its knowing silence.Each step echoed more than it said.Among shadows and wind, something new was stirring — still unnamed, yet already present.
When they reached the car, Wen opened the back door for the two of them.The gesture was simple.But in Yuyan, it lit something she couldn't quite name.A kind of care that doesn't announce itself — but is instantly recognized.
She got in last.
Wen's car was discreet, clean.A black sedan with straight lines, dark fabric seats, and a faint scent of green tea — as if even the air inside had learned to be sober, restrained.
The doors closed almost simultaneously, muffling the sound of the street.For a moment, the three of them simply breathed in the silence.
— Where do you live? — Wen asked, starting the engine gently.
Xiaoqing replied first, pointing to a side street:
— I'm just past the bridge, near the old temple.
Yuyan hesitated.
— I… live past the central station. 42nd Street. At the end of Line 7, near the technical college.
Wen nodded naturally, without commenting on the distance.
— Then I'll drop you off last.
She simply adjusted the strap of her bag on her lap, as if that small movement could keep her thoughts in order.
The car moved forward along the damp avenue.The puddles reflected the streetlamps like tiny broken moons.The city, too, seemed to have retreated — as if it understood the need to respect that brief moment of suspended intimacy.
For several minutes, no one spoke.But the silence didn't hurt.It was listening.
Xiaoqing was the first to break the spell:
— Thank you, Professor. Truly. You saved us — from both the weather and the walk.
Wen smiled faintly, just the corner of his mouth.
Shortly after, they pulled up in front of an old five-story building.
— Here, she said, unlocking the door.Before stepping out, she turned to Yuyan with an almost imperceptible wink.
— Good night. Don't stay up too long talking about enzymes, okay?
Yuyan closed her eyes for a second, holding back the embarrassment.
— Go, Xiaoqing…
Her friend disappeared into the building's lobby. And then, it was just the two of them.
The car began to glide once more through nearly empty streets.The dashboard lights cast soft shadows across Wen's face, who drove with calm, attentive eyes.Yuyan stared out the window, but the silence between them felt like a magnetic field — dense, yet peaceful.
— Can I play something? — he asked, without turning his head.
— Sure.
Wen connected his phone.He picked a track without searching.It started with a solitary piano — spaced, hesitant notes, like footsteps on tatami.Then came the strings, delicate.
Yuyan recognized it.
— Yiruma?
— "Spring Waltz."
She smiled, still watching the city slip by like a dream through the window.
— I listen to this when I don't know what I'm feeling.
He replied a second later:
— So do I.
The music filled the space between them — the space where words hadn't yet dared to go.As if it were saying what they couldn't quite speak aloud.
Then Yuyan broke the silence with something deeper.
— About Yue… thank you.
Wen took a moment before answering.
— How did you know?
— Qiao mentioned it. Very... subtly. But I had already noticed.The way everything happened. The unnamed gentleness.
He let out a breath — almost like relief.
— I just… saw myself in her.
Yuyan looked at him — for the first time that night — without haste.
— You grew up in an orphanage, didn't you?
Wen nodded, his eyes still on the road.
— No one should grow up afraid of being cared for.
The sentence lingered in the air, between the front seat and her gaze.It floated, like the melody still playing faintly in the background.
After that, the silence returned.But it was different now.Softer. More tender.
The car turned onto the narrow street where Yuyan lived — a quiet lane, with sleeping hydrangeas lining the sidewalks and only a few lights still on.In front of a low house with a small garden framed by shrubs and two red lanterns hanging under the eaves, she pointed:
— That one. Next to the house with the white azalea.
Wen parked carefully.His hands remained on the wheel, but he turned to face her.
— Thank you for the company… and for listening.
Yuyan took a moment to answer.
— Thank you for… not rushing anything.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other.There was nothing obvious about that instant. But there was warmth.And a shy kind of tenderness — the kind you don't learn in books or films.
She opened the door slowly, picked up her bag gently.But before she stepped out, his voice reached her — soft:
— Lin Yuyan...
She turned, surprised.
— Good night.
She smiled. Said nothing. Just nodded.
At the gate, Lin Meilan was watching.Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
— Long ride, huh?
— The bus was late, Yuyan replied — a bit too rehearsed.
Her mother chuckled quietly but didn't press further.She simply cast one last glance toward the parked car,where Wen still sat — hands resting loosely on the wheel, face turned toward the sky.
The moon, high and pale, seemed to be watching him too.
Inside the car, he picked up his phone.Opened WeChat.New message to: Lin Yuyan.
"Hi.Thank you for tonight.Rest well."
The message was sent.
Upstairs, Yuyan was still standing by the window.Her phone vibrated.She read the message.And didn't reply.She just stood there, fingers still resting on the screen.
Outside, the moon remained high —the same one that had watched Wen just moments before.Now, it was watching her.
The same light.The same silence.As if something, finally, was beginning to link them — even without words.
And then, slowly, she smiled.Not like someone who understands.But like someone who is beginning to feel.