He blinked—once, slowly, lashes heavy with the weight of gathered flakes that melted into damp trails down his cheeks.
And then he began to walk, his steps steady, unhurried, as though his body already knew this path, this temperature, this kind of night—the familiar rhythm etched into muscle memory from countless evenings just like it. The pavement crunched faintly under his boots, a soft, irregular cadence that blended with the hush, each footfall deliberate and unforced.
No rush.
No discomfort.
If anything, the cold seemed to fit around him naturally, like a coat he'd forgotten he owned—one tailored to the contours of his frame, slipping over his shoulders without seam or snag, insulating without confining. It wrapped him in its quiet embrace, the chill seeping through layers not as an intruder but as an extension, dulling the edges of the world to a tolerable blur.
His breath left him in soft white puffs that drifted backward, ephemeral clouds that twisted lazily in the wake of his movement before dissolving into the falling snow, leaving no trace but a lingering warmth on his lips.
And as he walked, his fingertips brushed the edge of his pocket—
a tiny, unconscious gesture,
like a habit carried from long ago, fingers seeking the familiar fold of fabric, the subtle security of enclosure, tracing the seam with a feather-light touch that spoke of routines ingrained deeper than thought.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
The winter air followed him quietly.
Like a memory that walked without sound, trailing at his heels with patient persistence, its presence felt more in the spaces it occupied than in any overt claim—cool currents eddying around his ankles, stirring the hem of his coat.
Snow kept falling in slow, thoughtful flakes, each one catching the dim streetlight before sinking into the dark pavement—a brief sparkle, golden and fleeting, like fireflies winking out one by one against the encroaching night. They layered the ground in a thin, pristine veil, muting the cracks and stains beneath, transforming the ordinary walk into a passage through untouched canvas.
Cheng Wei walked as if he belonged to this kind of night—
a tall, quiet silhouette moving through a world made soft by winter, his form cutting a gentle path through the drift, shoulders relaxed under the downy accumulation that dusted his hair and collar like powdered sugar.
He didn't hurry.
He never did.
The city around him felt muted, like someone had lowered the volume of everything except the sound of snow touching ground—a pervasive stillness where distant traffic hummed as a faint undercurrent, shop signs buzzed inaudibly, and the occasional drip from an awning fell with exaggerated clarity. Even his footsteps seemed to know their place—measured, calm, never disturbing the stillness, soles pressing and lifting with a precision that respected the fragile hush.
A small gust of wind pushed past him, a brief whisper from the alleyways, carrying the crisp bite of ice and the faint, underlying mineral scent of the river nearby.
He tilted his head slightly, letting it run along his cheek, the air's passage cool and fleeting, ruffling the fine hairs at his temple.
The cold didn't bite him; it brushed him, almost politely, like an old acquaintance saying hello after too long—familiar in its touch, carrying no malice, only the understated greeting of seasons that remembered each other's company.
Halfway down the road, he stopped beside a closed flower shop, the storefront a shadowed bulk in the night, its windows veiled by drawn blinds that hinted at wilted petals within.
Its shutters were pulled down, sturdy metal panels sealed against the freeze, but a single paper lantern hung by the door, flickering weakly—a solitary glow, orange and wavering, casting erratic pools of light onto the stoop where snow had begun to mound in delicate curves.
He lifted his hand and let another snowflake land on his skin, palm upturned to the sky, the flake alighting with improbable delicacy on the back of his bare knuckle, exposed where his glove had slipped.
He watched it melt, thin as a sigh, the crystal dissolving into a pinpoint of moisture that cooled rapidly, tracing a chill rivulet down toward his wrist before vanishing into the cuff.
A faint curl appeared at the corner of his lips—
not a smile, not quite—
more like a memory brushing against him from inside, a subtle softening of the mouth's line, as if something dormant had stirred just beneath the surface, loosening the perpetual quiet with the ghost of an old ease.
He lowered his hand again, fingers flexing once before returning to their pocketed vigil, the gesture complete, unhurried.
The walk to his building was short, the remaining blocks unfolding in the same unspooled calm, the snow's accumulation thickening underfoot to a downy cushion that muffled each step further.
Warm air greeted him as he stepped through the lobby, a sudden bloom of heated drafts from overhead vents that carried the faint, institutional scent of polished floors and distant cooking—jarring after the night's purity, but he didn't linger, shaking flakes from his coat with absent efficiency.
He ascended the stairs, his palm gliding along the rail, fingertips tracing the cold metal out of habit—a cool, smooth texture under his touch, the banister's faint ridges guiding him upward in the dim spill of wall sconces.
His floor was quiet, only the low hum of a heater somewhere behind a wall—a steady, mechanical drone that vibrated through the plaster, a constant companion to the solitude, underscoring the empty hallway with its unobtrusive pulse.