Wei rested his head against the icy window, the chill seeping deeper into his skin with each passing block, a steady anchor against the sway of his thoughts. His breath formed a faint fog on the glass, blooming in soft, irregular circles that expanded with every exhale before fading back to transparency, leaving behind only the ghost of warmth.
Outside, snow had begun to fall properly now—soft flakes drifting down with a kind of fragile confidence, as if they knew they didn't need a storm to be noticed. They slipped through the night air in unhurried spirals, catching the faint glow of distant streetlamps before vanishing into the growing white below, each one a whisper against the city's hush.
Wei's eyes followed their descent.
Slow.
Gentle.
Unhurried.
The motion was hypnotic, pulling his gaze along their lazy paths, from the velvet dark above to the blurring ground. And with every falling snowflake, something in his chest tightened—a subtle pull, like an invisible thread drawing inward, gathering fragments of feeling he thought he'd buried under layers of routine.
Winter always had a way of finding him.
No matter where he lived.
No matter how many years passed.
No matter how many layers he wrapped around his heart—coats, scarves, silences that stretched like frost across forgotten panes.
It always found him.
And it always brought him back.
Back to a boy whose laughter lived in snow, bright and fleeting as the crunch under boots, echoing in parks where the world narrowed to shared breaths and stolen glances.
Back to warm hands that hid trembling, enveloping his own with a quiet insistence, fingers lacing together against the bite, holding on as if the cold could be outrun with touch alone.
Back to a voice that called him Xiao Wei like it was a promise and a weakness, murmured low in the spaces between heartbeats, turning his name into something sacred, something that unraveled him without mercy.
Back to a story he never finished living, pages torn mid-sentence, the ink of what-ifs bleeding into the margins of every quiet night.
The bus continued forward, its engine a low, steady murmur cutting through the muffled quiet, carrying him through neighborhoods where windows glowed like distant stars.
The snow thickened, flakes clustering now in denser veils that softened the outlines of buildings and trees, turning the familiar into a dreamlike blur.
The wind quieted, dropping to a sigh that barely stirred the accumulation on the sidewalks, leaving the fall undisturbed.
And Cheng Wei—sitting alone with cold hands and an unsteady breath—felt winter settle onto him fully.
Softly.
Completely.
Without apology.
It draped over his shoulders like an old acquaintance, familiar in its weight, pressing just enough to remind him of the shape of absence. Tonight was different.
He could feel it—a shift in the air, subtle as the first flake, like the season wasn't just arriving but arriving with intent, carrying echoes on its breath.
The bus slowed down, brakes hissing with a tired sigh that vibrated through the floor, the vehicle easing to a halt with the reluctance of something reluctant to let go.
The dim yellow lights flickered once, casting wavering shadows across the seats and reflecting against the cold windows in fractured glints.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners under the brim of his cap.
"Last stop, son."
His voice was rough, gravel-edged from hours on the road, but not unkind—a gruff warmth honed from too many late-night routes and solitary passengers.
"Careful outside. Snow's picking up."
Cheng Wei nodded slightly, the motion small and automatic, his neck stiff from the lean against the glass.
"Thank you."
He stood up, fingers brushing the cold metal pole for balance, the chill of it grounding him as his legs adjusted to the shift from stillness to motion. The faint hum of the bus engine vibrated through his bones, a deep thrum that resonated in his chest like the world's heart beating beneath him—steady, unyielding, a rhythm he'd come to rely on in these wordless rides.
As he walked toward the door, steps measured on the gritty floor, the driver added quietly, almost as an afterthought,
"You writers… always out late. Don't freeze yourself for a story, ah?"
A small chuckle rumbled from him, low and good-natured, breaking the quiet like a crack in thin ice.
Cheng Wei allowed a faint, polite smile—the barest curve of his lips, enough to acknowledge without inviting more.
"I'll try not to."
The door opened with a soft pneumatic pshh, the sound crisp and final, exhaling a rush of heated air that mingled briefly with the night.
Cold air rushed in—sharp, immediate, biting at his cheek like a sudden awakening, carrying the pure, mineral edge of fresh snow.
He stepped onto the pavement, boots crunching softly against the thin crust that had already formed, the ground yielding just enough to mark his passage.
And instantly, the world fell quiet.
The bus pulled away with a hollow rumble, its red taillights shrinking down the empty road, twin points of warmth swallowed by the curving haze ahead.
As soon as it disappeared around the bend, silence folded around him like a blanket—heavy, enveloping, muffling the distant hum of the city into oblivion.
No engines.
No footsteps.
Just snow tapping gently against his coat, a feather-light patter that sounded almost like hesitant applause.
The bus pulled away, its red lights fading into the white haze, the last echo of its departure dissolving into the fall.
As soon as the sound disappeared, Wei paused, rooted there on the sidewalk, the world contracting to the space around him.
Snow brushed past him, light as breath, settling on his hair, his shoulders, tiny weights that accumulated without notice, dusting him in white like forgotten confetti.
For a moment, he didn't move, letting the quiet seep in, filling the hollows the bus ride had stirred.
A strange stillness passed through him—
not sadness, not nostalgia, something quieter, more like the pause before a breath is drawn, expectant and undefined.
He lifted his hand slowly, gloved palm turning upward, catching a snowflake on the back of his glove.
It melted instantly, leaving a cold pinprick against his skin, a fleeting sting that bloomed into dampness.
His eyes softened, the sharpness easing from their edges, lids lowering just a fraction as if in quiet recognition.
Like he'd felt something familiar—not a memory exactly, but its shadow, brushing close enough to chill and comfort in equal measure.
He looked down the empty road, the path stretching into obscurity under the thickening veil, streetlights haloed and distant.
It's starting earlier this year, he thought, the words forming unvoiced in his mind, a simple observation laced with the weight of seasons unmarked.
He didn't smile, but something in his expression loosened, like a tight knot easing by a thread, the tension uncoiling just enough to allow a deeper breath.
Another flake touched his cheek, cool and insistent, tracing a path downward before melting away.