Chapter 1: Nameless Rain City
Huang Yunyi first realized that "a city has weight" during his third week of rain in Manchester.
The rain was neither pouring nor violent; it was simply continuous—like a low-frequency thought that refused to stop. The sky maintained an ambiguous shade of grey, the clouds hanging low as if pressing against one's forehead. The streets were perpetually damp, red brick walls gleaming with a dull sheen, and the wild grass beside the railway tracks lay flattened by the water, yet not dead.
He stood outside Piccadilly Station, the wheels of his suitcase making a hollow sound against the pavement.
In that moment, he suddenly realized: This place will not actively accept anyone. Manchester does not welcome you. It merely permits you to exist.
"Welcome," the broadcast said without emotion.
Huang Yunyi pulled his trench coat tighter, as if defending against a cold that didn't exist.
He hadn't come here to escape. That was what he told himself repeatedly. Not an escape, not a surrender, not a retreat after failure. Just—changing the location in which to continue living. Just leaving behind his original linguistic system, social ties, and familiar gazes and judgments.
But the more he explained it, the more it sounded like a defense for a fugitive.
His suitcase held very little. Clothes, books, a notebook worn fuzzy at the edges, and a ring with no ornamentation—one he didn't wear, but simply carried. That ring belonged to someone who did not exist in the present.
His accommodation was in Salford. An old apartment building where the hallway permanently smelled of a mixture of laundry detergent and dampness. The walls bore traces of repeated patching, like a face someone had tried too many times to whitewash.
The landlord was a middle-aged woman of few words. Handing him the keys, she said only one thing: "Boiler is old. Be patient."
Huang Yunyi nodded. He was used to nodding. Nodding was a response that didn't require revealing a stance.
The room was small: a bed, a desk, a chair. The window faced a stretch of abandoned railway; the tracks were rusty, and occasionally a cat would walk along them, as if patrolling a border that had lost its validity.
He propped his suitcase against the wall but didn't open it immediately. Instead, he sat on the bed. The mattress let out a soft groan.
In that moment, he felt a distinct, almost physical loneliness. It wasn't emotional; it was spatial. Like the air had suddenly become thin.
"You've arrived," he said to himself. His voice was low, almost inaudible.
That night, he suffered insomnia for the first time. Not because of jet lag, but because—there was absolutely no reason requiring him to sleep.
In the past, he slept for the next day's meetings, classes, tasks, responsibilities, and responses. Sleep was a functional preparation. But now, tomorrow was empty. Empty like a sheet of paper with no defined use.
He lay in bed. There was a water stain on the ceiling shaped like a torn continent. Streetlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, forming a straight line of light on the floor.
He stared at that line for a long time. Suddenly, a question occurred to him: If no one needs you, do you still exist?
The question wasn't sharp. It just sat there quietly. Like the rain.
On the third day, he began walking through the city. Without a destination. Manchester wasn't beautiful. It refused to please. Red brick buildings, narrow streets, iron railings by the canal, and cafes that seemed permanently fogged up. People walked fast, but their eyes weren't hurried—it was the composure of those accustomed to gloomy weather.
He sat in a cafe and ordered a black coffee. "Anything else?" the barista asked. "No," he said.
English didn't feel awkward in his mouth, but it wasn't intimate either. Like a coat that fit but didn't belong to him.
He opened his notebook. The first page was blank. He stared at that page and felt a sudden fear—not because he didn't know what to write, but because he could write anything. When restrictions vanish, choice itself becomes a burden.
Finally, he wrote just one line: I came here to remain unrecognized.
After writing it, he immediately closed the book. As if, were the sentence looked at for a second longer, it would start to argue with him.
Huang Yunyi did not lack introspection. He was overly introspective. The problem was, he never allowed introspection to reach a conclusion. Every judgment would be overturned, every emotion reinterpreted. He was used to standing outside his own thoughts, scrutinizing them, dismantling them, denying them. Over time, he had become a man who could not be convinced by himself.
Manchester didn't care about this. The city continued to rain. The canal continued its slow flow. Old factories were converted into apartments; history was packaged into a rentable atmosphere.
He walked past a wall with a sentence spray-painted on it: "You don't have to be who you were."
He stopped. Looked at it for a long time. Then continued walking.
He didn't take a photo. Some things, once recorded, start demanding a response from you. And right now, he refused to respond to anything.
That night, he dreamt of "that person" for the first time. There was no face in the dream, only a voice. The voice said: "You're walking too fast."
He wanted to answer, but found he no longer knew how to use the language of the dream. When he woke up, the sky wasn't yet bright. He sat up, his fingers unconsciously reaching for the ring in his suitcase. Cold. Real.
He suddenly understood something: Manchester was not his destination. It was merely a place that allowed him to slowly admit defeat.
The sound of rain rose again. Like applause. But not for him.
Chapter 2: Beyond Language
Huang Yunyi first truly realized that "language is not a tool for communication, but a border" the fourth time he ordered the wrong coffee.
That day, he wanted hot coffee. What came out of his mouth was: "Cold, please."
The barista nodded—no confusion, no correction. The sound of ice cubes dropping into the cup was crisp and clear, like a sentence being executed.
He took the iced coffee that shouldn't have existed and sat by the window. The glass was coated in a thin mist, the street outside isolated like another world. The rain hadn't stopped; pedestrians held umbrellas in monotonous, restrained colors, with almost no bright hues.
He stared at the floating ice in his cup. It was melting slowly. A mistake doesn't cause immediate consequences. A mistake just begins to change the temperature.
The problem with language wasn't that he couldn't speak it. It was that what he said was never what he truly wanted to express.
In his old world, his speech had purpose. Every sentence was anticipated, weighed, and placed in the appropriate position. Language was a precision instrument, like a scalpel. But here, language lost its directionality.
He said "Thank you," but it didn't mean gratitude; He said "Sorry," but it didn't mean apology; He said "Fine," and it didn't mean he was actually okay. All words turned into functional syllables. Just like the sound of rain.
He began to deliberately speak less. Not out of fear, but out of exhaustion. Every time he opened his mouth, it felt like performing a micro-translation—first from consciousness to language, then from language to sound, and finally accepting the listener's deviation in understanding. It consumed too much energy.
So, he observed more. He observed people in their state of not speaking.
In the supermarket, an elderly couple stood before a shelf. They glanced at each other, said nothing, yet reached for the same can of soup simultaneously. The man smiled and let the woman take it. On the bus, a young man wore headphones, old Britpop leaking out. His eyes were closed, his lips moving slightly, as if reciting a vow.
These moments required no language. They happened outside of language. Huang Yunyi suddenly felt a subtle envy.
He signed up for an evening language class. Not to improve, but to be allowed to make mistakes.
The classroom was in an old building. The lights were yellowish, the windows didn't close tight, and the wind would slip in carrying the scent of rain. There weren't many students; they were from different countries, and everyone's English carried a distinct accent.
The teacher was a woman with grey hair who spoke slowly and clearly, never interrupting anyone. "Take your time," she always said. Time seemed to actually slow down here.
When it was Huang Yunyi's turn to introduce himself, he paused for a long time. "My name is..." He subconsciously started in Chinese, then stopped immediately. No one in the room rushed him. He switched back to English. "My name is Huang Yun Yi."
The pronunciation wasn't perfect. But no one laughed.
"Why Manchester?" the teacher asked. It was a standard question. Yet it caught him off guard. Why Manchester? His brain rapidly began constructing answers: weather, schools, job opportunities, cultural atmosphere, personal interest—any of them would do.
But in the end, what he said was: "I don't know."
The air went quiet for a second. Then the teacher nodded. "That's okay."
In that moment, a long-lost looseness appeared in his chest. Not knowing was also allowed to exist.
After class, he walked home alone. Streetlights flickered on one by one, like memories being awakened in sequence. The wet ground reflected the light; the city looked unreal, as if it were all just a stage set.
He suddenly remembered a meeting from a long time ago. He was sitting at one end of a long table, facing a row of gazes waiting for a response. Someone asked a question—the tone was gentle, but carried a hidden test. Instinctively, he gave the correct answer. The meeting continued. Everyone was satisfied. Only he knew—that wasn't his real thought. But a real thought, in that setting, was a risk.
From that day on, he began to constantly train himself: How to say safe things. How to hide uncertainty. How to replace emotion with logic. Over time, he couldn't even distinguish— Which were the trained reactions, And which were his original self.
Manchester had no meetings. No occasions requiring him to give an immediate answer. The city was a patient listener; even if you were silent, it wouldn't get anxious.
But this freedom didn't make him relax. Instead, it left him exposed. Without language as a barrier, thoughts began to surge uncontrollably.
At night, he often sat by the window, listening to the distant sound of trains passing. That low, prolonged sound was like a summons that would never arrive. He would suddenly remember a sentence someone had said: "You are always too calm." He had smiled then, offering no rebuttal. Calmness was his armor. And his firewall. But now, no one needed him to be calm. He began to lose track of how to exist.
Once, after the language class, a girl from Spain walked with him for a while. She talked a lot, spoke fast, used exaggerated gestures. He spoke very little. But she didn't mind. "You look like you are listening to the rain," she suddenly said.
He froze. "What do you mean?" he asked. She pointed to his eyes. "Like you're somewhere else."
The sentence hit him. Not because it was accurate. But because—for the first time, he was seen, yet not required to explain.
He didn't deny it. He just said, "Maybe." She laughed. "Manchester does that to people."
Back at the apartment, he opened his notebook. This time, he didn't close it immediately. He wrote: Only when language vanished did I begin to hear myself.
After writing, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. The rain outside continued. But for the first time, he didn't feel it was closing in on him. Instead—it was keeping him company.
Chapter 3: Unremoved Old Wounds
It was on an afternoon without any warning that Huang Yunyi was struck by memory.
There was nothing unusual about the day. The rain was lighter than usual, as if hesitating whether to fall. He had been in the city center library for a long time, sitting by the window with a book spread out before him that he wasn't really reading. He was used to sitting like this. The book was just a reasonable posture, making solitude look purposeful.
As he turned a page, an old ticket slid out. It wasn't his. The paper had yellowed, the edges curling slightly, printed with route markers long since discontinued. The date was blurry, but the city name remained clear—it wasn't Manchester.
He stared at the ticket. No image immediately surfaced in his mind. Only his chest tightened first. Memory is always like this. It never knocks.
He slipped the ticket back into the book but found he could no longer sit there. The silence of the library suddenly became ear-piercing. Typing sounds, page turning, a distant cough—everything was amplified, forcing him back into a forgotten scene.
He left the library. The wind picked up on the street. The moment the wind blew into his collar, he suddenly remembered— That was also a windy day.
Back then, he hadn't yet learned how to hide. Young, clear, possessing an unpolished sharpness. He spoke directly, didn't avoid eye contact, wore his emotions on his face. Someone once told him: "Being like this, you'll get hurt easily." He said, "That doesn't matter."
Thinking about it now, that sentence was almost naive.
He walked faster and faster. The streetscape began to blur, like a strip of film being stretched. In his mind, certain images were gradually coming into focus— A room with whitish lighting. A long table. Someone sitting opposite him, hands clasped, tone steady. "This is not directed at you personally."
He had heard that sentence too many times. It had almost become a fixed formula. That day, he nodded to show understanding. He even said, "I understand."
But after leaving that building, he stood on the street corner for a long time. A long time. Long enough for the sky to go completely dark. He didn't cry. He simply realized something: You can be thoroughly denied without any emotional conflict. Denial can be quiet. It can be civilized. It can even be well-intentioned. That is harder to defend against than rage.
The Manchester wind pulled him back to reality. He stood by the canal; the water was murky, reflecting the grey-white sky. The iron railing was cold, and as his fingers pressed against it, he felt a real, tactile sensation. "You are no longer there," he whispered to himself.
But the body didn't believe it. The body remembers all unprocessed moments.
That night, his dreams were deep. Not a continuous narrative, but fragments. A door not fully closed. Someone speaking behind it, voices lowered. His name was mentioned, but not to him. In the dream, he stood in the hallway, uninvited.
When he woke, his heart was racing. He sat up, a light sweat on his forehead. Dawn was just breaking outside. He suddenly felt a strong impulse— To throw that ring away.
The ring lay at the bottom of the suitcase. He took it out and placed it on the table. The metal surface had tiny scratches, indicating it had been frequently taken off and put on. It didn't symbolize a promise; it was more like a habit.
He stared at it. That person's face remained blurry. But that sense of presence was clear enough to be uncomfortable. Not love. But an experience of having been deeply understood. Once that kind of experience exists, it makes all subsequent relationships seem thin.
He had tried to explain that relationship. To others, to himself. But explanation itself weakened it. Some things, once wrapped in language, become distorted. He eventually chose silence. But silence didn't make the memory disappear. It just pressed it into a deeper place.
The next day, he was late for language class. The teacher glanced at him but didn't ask. The class was doing a simple exercise: Describe an "experience that has ended."
When it was his turn, the classroom was quiet. He opened his mouth. Countless images rushed through his mind, yet none were suitable to be spoken. "I..." He stopped. Time became viscous in that moment. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.
This was the first time he had refused to express himself in a public setting. No explanation. No addition. Just a complete sentence.
The teacher nodded. "That's also an answer."
In that moment, he felt a belated sense of respect. Not from others. But from himself.
On the way home, he passed the graffiti wall again. "You don't have to be who you were." This time, he stopped for longer. He suddenly realized: The problem wasn't who he was in the past. It was that—he had never allowed that version of himself to truly end. The old wound continued to hurt not because it was too deep. But because he had never unwrapped the bandages to look at it.
At night, he opened his notebook again. He wrote: Memory isn't coming back to find me. It is me finally stopping to let it get close.
After writing, he didn't close the book immediately. He sat there, for a long time. Outside, the sound of the distant train rose again. This time, he didn't feel it was summoning him. It seemed to be confirming— He was still here.
Chapter 4: City Echoes
Huang Yunyi first realized he was being "drawn in" on a night of no importance.
The day held no special significance. No anniversary, no emergency, even the rain fell perfunctorily. The sky hung low but didn't truly let water fall, like a sigh held back for too long.
He had intended to go straight home. But he stopped as he passed a bar. It was a very ordinary place: wooden door, dim yellow lights, faded gig posters on the window. Low music leaked through the cracks in the door—not rock, not pop, but more like a melody practiced repeatedly but never completed.
He stood at the door for a long time. No reason to go in. No reason not to go in. Eventually, he pushed the door open.
The bar wasn't loud. The lights were kept low, cutting people's faces into uneven fragments of light and shadow. The person behind the bar moved with practiced ease, barely looking as they slid drinks to the correct spots.
Huang Yunyi sat in a corner. He didn't order alcohol, just a glass of water. This seemed out of place in a bar, but no one paid him any mind.
A band was playing in the corner. The lead singer's voice wasn't stable, even going off-key in places, but it was precisely this imperfection that made it impossible to look away. Huang Yunyi found himself listening seriously. Not analyzing. Not judging. Just listening.
The music created a faint resonance inside him, as if a dusty part of him had been gently tapped. He suddenly remembered something from a long time ago. Someone had told him: "You are always waiting for a 'more suitable time'." He had said: "There's no harm in being cautious." That person looked at him, silent for a moment. Then said: "But some things, once missed, will never come back."
At the time, he didn't argue. He just remembered the sentence. But he didn't adopt it.
When the music ended, scattered applause broke out in the bar. Not enthusiastic, but sincere. The lead singer smiled, looking relieved. Huang Yunyi realized he was clapping too. It was a moment that required no linguistic participation.
Someone sat down next to him. A local, not old, dressed casually, smelling faintly of alcohol. "First time?" the stranger asked. Huang Yunyi nodded. "Yes." "This place isn't famous," the man smiled, "but it keeps people." The phrase made him pause slightly. "Why?" he asked. The man shrugged. "Because no one here pretends too much." When he said this, he didn't look at Huang Yunyi. It was as if he were speaking to the air.
They didn't talk deeply. Just exchanged a few fragmented sentences occasionally, about music, about the weather, about the fickleness of the city. Huang Yunyi found he didn't resist this shallow connection. It made no demands. It held no promises. It simply existed.
But it was exactly this slight closeness that began to make him uneasy.
After that day, he began appearing frequently in the same places. The bar, the cafe, the bench by the canal. He began to be remembered by some. Not by name. But by outline. "The guy who always orders water." "The guy who sits by the window watching the rain."
He didn't deny it. Nor did he explain. But the city began to generate a response to him.
He met the Spanish girl again. This time in the supermarket. She was pushing a cart piled with snacks and cheap red wine. "You look a little lighter than last time," she said. He paused. "Do I?" he asked. She nodded. "Like you're finally allowing yourself to stand here."
The sentence made him feel a familiar tension. Not of being misunderstood. But of being approached. Instinctively, he wanted to retreat. But his body didn't move.
They sat in her apartment. Music played softly. Outside, the city lights turned on one by one. She talked a lot. About why she left her hometown, about her uncertainty regarding the future, about the life she thought she wanted. He listened. Gave no advice. Tried to forge no resonance. Just listened. It was what he was best at.
But in a gap between words, she suddenly stopped and looked at him. "And you?" she asked. The question wasn't sharp. But he couldn't avoid it. "Me what?" he said. "Why are you here?"
He fell silent. The music in the room continued. Time seemed to stretch. "I don't know," he said. It was the truth. And it was all he could offer at the moment. She didn't press. Just nodded. "That's enough."
On the way home, he suddenly felt a strong unease. Not because of what had happened. But because something was happening. The city was extending its feelers toward him. And he hadn't immediately cut them off.
This meant risk. It meant—once he truly integrated, he would have to face the possibility of leaving. Face losing again.
That night, he stood before the window, watching the distant lights. He suddenly realized a fact: He wasn't afraid of loneliness. What he feared was—being stripped bare again after no longer being lonely. That would hurt more than the initial solitude. Because he would already know another possibility existed.
He opened his notebook. This time, he wrote very slowly. The city is starting to answer me. And I am starting to want to run.
After writing, he closed the book. He didn't lie down immediately. Instead, he stood there, listening to the city's echoes. They weren't loud. They just repeated constantly— You are here. You are seen.
Chapter 5: Staying in the Rain
The rain began to fall heavily in the early morning. Not the gradual kind, but falling without transition, as if finally giving up restraint. The raindrops smashed against the window, the sound dense and direct, knocking the city awake from its sleep.
Huang Yunyi woke early. Actually, he hadn't truly fallen asleep. Lately, he often existed in a state between wakefulness and rest. His consciousness floated, but his body was heavy, like being placed on the water's surface but unable to reach the shore.
He sat up, didn't turn on the light. In the darkness, the sound of rain covered almost everything. This was Manchester's most authentic moment.
He knew something was approaching. Not an event. But a decision.
Recently, he had started receiving vague signals—emails, messages, tentative contacts from old relationships. No clear invitations, no clear demands, just a familiar tone reappearing. That tone said: You can come back. There is still a place for you. You haven't truly left.
They weren't wrong. The world never lacks places. What it lacks is simply—whether you are still willing to stand back in one.
He went out. The rain was heavy; the umbrella was almost useless. Water streamed down the ribs of the umbrella, soaking his cuffs. He didn't care.
The streets were empty. Streetlights were stretched by the rain into long, thin lines, like unstable coordinates. He walked neither fast nor slow, his footsteps swallowed by the rain.
He walked to the canal. The water level had risen, the flow faster than usual. The surface churned, unable to reflect any complete shadow. He stood there for a long time. In his mind, there were no memories. No plans either. Only an unusually clear sensation— He was standing in a position that could not be substituted. Not because it was important. But because it was real.
He remembered himself when he first arrived in this city. Back then, he was almost empty. Like a cleared container, hoping only that nothing more would be poured in. But now, he knew that was impossible. As long as you are alive, the world will constantly enter you. The only difference is— Whether you allow it to leave a mark.
The phone in his pocket vibrated once. He didn't check it immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes first. Rainwater slid down his temple and into his eye, bringing a brief sting. That sting assured him— He was still feeling.
He finally took out his phone. The screen lit up. It was a short message. No command, no emotion. Just a question. "When do you plan to come back?"
He stared at that line of text. No anger. No resistance. Not even significant hesitation. He just felt a long-lost, clear boundary taking shape.
He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he typed slowly. Deleted. Typed again. Finally, he sent just one sentence: "I don't know if I will go back."
He paused. Then added one more line: "But for now, I'm not leaving."
Sent. The phone screen went dark. The world returned to the sound of rain.
In that moment, there was no sense of victory. Nor relief. Only a quiet assumption of responsibility. He knew this decision wouldn't make life easier. Nor would it bring any immediate reward. It might even prove to be wrong. But that was no longer the most important thing.
He turned and walked back the way he came. The rain was still falling. The city didn't change its rhythm for him. Buses passed on schedule, the distant train let out a low whistle. Someone sheltered from the rain under an eave, someone else simply ran through it.
The world didn't care about his choice. But this time, he no longer needed the world to care.
Back at the apartment, he changed out of his soaked clothes. Sat at the desk. Opened that notebook. This was the last page he would write in this city. He wrote very slowly. The handwriting was steadier than ever before.
I used to think leaving was to avoid loss. Later I understood, true loss is having never stood anywhere at all. I am uncertain of the future. But right now, I am here. The rain hasn't stopped. And I haven't left.
After writing, he closed the book. He didn't look back at it. Outside the window, the sky began to turn pale. The rain weakened, but didn't stop completely. Manchester's morning unfolded slowly, like a sheet of paper in no hurry to offer an answer.
Huang Yunyi stood by the window, watching the city wake up bit by bit. He had no expectations. And no evasions. He just stood there. Staying in the rain.
(End)