Chapter 2: The Look That Didn't Ask Permission
Harbin called it spring—and that day, Lin Yuan tried to call it that too.Not because she believed it. Because discipline demanded it.
The light filtering through the blinds was pale, almost blue, as if the sky were rationing warmth. The apartment was too quiet to be morning; a big-city quietness, until she remembered that the city, in truth, never sleeps—it only learns to breathe softly.
Lin Yuan opened her eyes slowly.
The heater in the corner did an honest job, but not enough. The cold seemed to live inside the walls. On the windowpane, faint beads of condensation traced crooked paths, as if the night had cried there and still hadn't had time to pull itself together.
Before she even moved, something warm pressed against the edge of the bed.
A snout.
Then an insistent paw.
— I know… — she murmured, her voice still caught in sleep. — I'm awake.
The dog wagged his tail as if he'd won a battle. He wasn't big—short-haired, honey-colored with white patches, ears that could never decide whether to stand or fall, eyes too alert for a world this cold. Lin Yuan had adopted him the winter before, when she found that small body trembling near a closed shop, as if the street had spat out life and forgotten to pick it back up.
She rested her hand on his head and felt the warmth missing from the rest of the day.
— Good morning, Nian.
The name was simple, short, almost a promise: nian—to remember. Because she was afraid of forgetting what mattered. And because he, somehow, always seemed to remember for her.
Nian jumped off the mattress and ran to the bedroom door, then stopped to look back, demanding.
Lin Yuan sat up, her feet touching the icy floor.
The first sensation was always the same: a small, domestic jolt that said you're alone, and then routine slipped over her like a coat—never fully warm, but protective enough to keep going.
The apartment was small, clean, arranged with the precision of someone who has no room for chaos.
In the living room: a light gray sofa, a blanket folded with meticulous care, two cushions that never stayed out of place for more than one night. A low table marked with faint coffee rings—circle over circle, like old moons. On the shelf, books stacked in two columns: some by subject, some by urgency; among them, a box of winter medicine she swore she no longer needed, yet never had the courage to throw away.
Near the window, a little plant that refused to die—small, firm leaves, surviving with the same stubbornness as her.
And on the floor, beside the heater, Nian's bed: a worn blue fabric, a rope toy, and a rubber bone he guarded as if it were wealth.
In the hallway, two coats hung on the wall. One black, more formal. One beige, older, soft, smelling faintly of tea and long nights. Lin Yuan always chose the beige when she wanted to feel less alone.
The kitchen was narrow, but it held the warmth of habit: an electric kettle, two cups, a jar of sugar, another of coffee. A cutting board with small knife scars. A bowl that existed only for Nian, because he had a habit of looking at her as if it were injustice to eat on the floor.
She shuffled into the kitchen and Nian followed like a cheerful guardian.
— You first. — She poured kibble into his bowl. — Don't look at me like that. I'm going.
Nian ate quickly, as if the world might steal it at any moment.
Lin Yuan turned on the kettle.
The sound of heating water was the most comforting noise in the house—like, for a few minutes, something in life obeyed.
While she waited, she leaned against the counter and checked her phone.
One notification.
Then another.
Messages she didn't want to answer yet, because mornings were fragile—and some words were too heavy to read before coffee.
She breathed in.
The kettle beeped.
Lin Yuan poured water into her mug and stirred the coffee with a small metal spoon that made a shy, timid sound. She opened the sugar jar and, for a moment, hesitated.
She didn't like it that sweet.
But that day, she added a full spoonful. Then half another.
Not for taste.
For defiance.
As if sweetening it were a way of telling her own body: today you will work, even if winter is still nearby.
Nian finished eating and rubbed against her leg, asking for the next step.
— Okay… — she said, blowing on her coffee. — Let's go.
She picked up the leash.
The leash was red.
Lin Yuan hadn't chosen it for symbolism, but sometimes life chooses through details you can't control.
Outside, the building corridor was cold and smelled of damp cement. An older woman passed by dragging grocery bags, a man climbed the stairs talking on the phone; no one looked at anyone for more than a second, as if the city trained people early not to ask for emotional space.
On the street, Harbin was the same contradiction: the calendar said April, but the wind still had teeth. Old snow, stained and tired, rested in the shadows of buildings and along the edges of sidewalks—not white, not pretty. Just remnants.
Nian walked with energy, quick paws dodging puddles as if he'd learned that the water in that city wasn't water—it was melted memory.
Lin Yuan pulled her coat closer and tightened her scarf.
The sky looked too clean, as if it had no intention of getting involved with anything.
She glanced at the windows of buildings—cold reflections, distant lives—and, for a second, felt that familiar sensation: the world moving forward, and her moving too, always with the impression she was a few steps behind.
The walk was brief. Nian did what he needed to do, then looked at her as if to say, now it's your turn.
Back in the apartment, Lin Yuan took off her shoes, hung the leash, washed her hands.
She opened the folder on the living-room table.
Documents.
Forms.
A sheet with an address and a room number.
A signature she needed that day.
Simple on paper.
Enormous in her chest.
Nian jumped onto the sofa and curled into the blanket, watching her with the kind of gaze that doesn't understand the world, but understands her.
Lin Yuan traced a finger over the page, as if touching the letters could keep the day from falling apart.
— I just need to go and take care of it. — she said, more to herself than to him.
Nian blinked slowly.
Lin Yuan clipped a pale hairpin into place, tucking a strand back. A small, automatic gesture—but also armor.
Before leaving, she bent down and kissed the dog's head.
— If I'm late, don't make a scene. — she said, trying to sound playful.
Nian answered with a low sound, like a fine from someone who didn't quite believe her.
She put on her shoes, picked up the folder, checked her keys, and opened the door.
The moment the corridor's cold air touched her face, Lin Yuan felt the world grow too large again.
But she stepped out anyway.
Because some people don't wait for winter to pass.
They walk straight through it.
And without knowing it, that very day—in that same piece of city—her path was going to cross someone who seemed to exist the way cold exists: without asking permission.
Lin Yuan arrived at the university the way one enters a place known for years—yet that, on certain days, still manages to make you feel like a stranger.
Harbin's campus had the austere beauty of big places: concrete and glass buildings, trees with thin branches like exposed veins, and paths that always seemed slightly damp even when the sky was clear. The cold there wasn't as aggressive as it was out on open streets—it was polite, contained, slipping in through the cuffs of her coat and staying.
She passed through the gate with the folder held to her chest, steady steps, straight posture—the kind of control you learn when you have to look fine even when you don't feel fine.
Students moved in clusters, laughter muffled by scarves, heavy backpacks, eyes still full of energy. Lin Yuan watched without envy, but with a distant tenderness—as if she were seeing a version of herself that no longer existed.
In her department building, the lobby smelled of paper, old coffee, and central heating. A security guard greeted her with a nod.
— Professor Lin.
— Good morning.
Her voice came out clear, neutral. The voice she used at work: firm without harshness, gentle without fragility.
The elevator took its time. She waited, staring at her reflection in the metal, adjusting her bag strap, mentally reviewing her morning: class at nine-thirty, a quick meeting with the coordinators at noon, then grading reports—and, between one interval and the next, the invisible time when life happens… or tries to.
When she finally reached the second floor, the corridor was nearly empty. The overhead white light made everything seem more serious than it was. Lin Yuan walked to her office—a small space with a desk, a bookshelf, and a narrow window that showed only a slice of sky.
She set the folder down, took off her coat, and hung it carefully on the chair.
In the corner, there was a mug with a simple mountain drawing. She liked it because it didn't say anything—and somehow, it still seemed to understand.
She turned on the computer.
As the screen woke up, she opened the folder and took out the papers: a form that needed signing, an attendance sheet, handwritten notes. There was also a book marked with sticky tabs—quiet colors, almost shy. Lin Yuan didn't like excess, not even in objects.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from the office reminding her about the noon meeting.
She breathed in and replied, "Ok, thank you."
Then, for a few seconds, she stood still, watching the cursor blink on the screen, as if it were the heart of the day: insistent, calm, relentless.
— Let's go… — she murmured, more to herself than to the world.
She skimmed through her slides, adjusted a sentence, swapped an image, and saved everything with near-ritual precision. Her life was full of these small rituals—not out of obsession, but out of survival.
At eight-fifty, Lin Yuan gathered her materials and headed to the classroom.
The corridor was beginning to fill.
— Professor Lin! — a student waved, her face half hidden by a scarf. — Are you going to send that article you mentioned?
— I'll send it this afternoon. — Lin Yuan answered with a brief smile. — And I want you to read it before next class.
— Today? — the student dramatized, laughing.
— Today. — Lin Yuan replied, deliberately serious, but with a soft spark in her eyes.
Some people thought she was cold.
Those who stayed long enough knew she was simply economical. And when she truly smiled, it was like a window opening in winter—rare, and therefore more important.
The class went by quickly—two hours of questions and answers, the kind of mental pace that leaves no room to think about yourself. When the students left, Lin Yuan packed up slowly, listening to their voices fade down the hallway.
She was putting away her marker when she heard a voice behind her.
— Lin Yuan. You always finish like time works for you.
She turned and saw Zhao Lian.
Zhao Lian carried light even on gray days: hair in a high bun, small earrings, discreet lipstick, and an easy smile. She worked in the same department, but somehow lived as if she had more hours in the day than everyone else.
Beside her was Chen Rui.
Chen Rui had broad shoulders, a relaxed posture, and that habit of speaking with laughter—even when he was complaining. He'd been their colleague since Lin Yuan's first year as a professor, and since then he'd become a constant presence, like a table that never moves.
— Are you accusing me of being organized? — Lin Yuan asked, closing her folder.
— I'm accusing you of not knowing how to be chaotic for even five minutes. — Zhao Lian stepped closer, giving her a light hug. — Have you eaten anything today?
Lin Yuan hesitated just long enough to betray herself.
Chen Rui smiled.
— She hasn't. Look at her face. The "I survived class, now I'll survive the rest" face.
— I had coffee. — Lin Yuan defended herself, with dignity.
— That's not food. — Zhao Lian pointed out.
— It's fuel. — Lin Yuan shot back, and they both laughed.
Chen Rui checked his watch.
— We're going down to the cafeteria. Come with us. Before you slip into that silent mode of "I'll work until I turn into snow."
Lin Yuan tightened her grip on the folder.
— I have a meeting at noon.
— Then you have forty minutes. — Zhao Lian hooked her arm as if it were the most natural thing. — Forty minutes is enough for a coffee and a slice of cake. And if you want, enough to remember you're human.
Lin Yuan was about to say no.
It was automatic. Almost instinct.
But that day, the word stuck.
Maybe it was the way her body felt too light from hunger. Maybe it was the thin exhaustion that doesn't shout—it simply insists. Maybe it was… the need to be near someone who would speak loudly on her behalf for a few minutes.
— Fine. — she yielded with a short exhale. — Just one coffee.
— Just one coffee. — Zhao Lian echoed, as if promising she wouldn't push.
Chen Rui made a theatrical bow.
— Professor Lin is allowing a social act. Mark the date.
— Chen Rui… — Lin Yuan narrowed her eyes.
— I stopped. I stopped. — he laughed, hands up.
They walked down the corridor together. Lin Yuan in the middle, being tugged toward normalcy.
In the elevator, Zhao Lian told them about a student who had emailed at three in the morning asking whether "it was acceptable to cite a poem in the methodology section." Chen Rui talked about a visiting professor who mixed up the campus name and called the university "a beautiful place to suffer."
Lin Yuan let out a quiet laugh.
A small laugh, but real.
And that alone warmed the day by a degree.
When they reached the ground floor, the smell of coffee grew stronger, like an unavoidable invitation.
The campus cafeteria wasn't charming—it was functional. Light wooden tables, simple chairs, display cases of bread and cake, a machine that made too much noise, students flowing in and out like waves.
But there was a large window.
And there, the light fell softer.
Zhao Lian tipped her chin as if it were obvious.
— Let's sit there.
Lin Yuan followed her gaze and saw the table by the window—empty for a moment. The pale outside light came in like cold fabric, laying thin lines on the floor.
They crossed the room. Chen Rui headed straight for the counter.
— The usual for you two?
— Cappuccino for me. — Zhao Lian answered quickly.
— Americano. No sugar. — Lin Yuan said, in almost the same tone she'd used to tell the guard good morning: firm, unadorned.
Chen Rui arched an eyebrow.
— You and your no-sugar coffee… One day I'll understand that philosophy.
Lin Yuan only shrugged.
Zhao Lian sat first, taking off her coat and draping it over the chair with an elegant gesture. Lin Yuan sat opposite her, instinctively keeping the folder on her lap, as if the world might steal it even there.
— Relax. — Zhao Lian tapped the folder with two fingers, smiling. — No one's going to demand productivity from you here.
Lin Yuan looked toward the window.
Outside, campus life went on. People hurried, the wind stirred thin branches, the sky stayed too clear to promise warmth.
She breathed in slowly.
And for a few seconds, she simply existed.
Chen Rui returned carrying the coffees and a plate with two slices of cake.
— One coffee, two cakes. Because I refuse to watch a professor pass out out of stubbornness.
Lin Yuan opened her mouth to protest, but Zhao Lian was already taking a fork.
— He's right. — she said, pushing one slice toward Lin Yuan. — Eat.
Lin Yuan lowered her eyes to the cake, then to the steaming cup.
The vapor rose like a small domestic ghost.
She wrapped her hands around the mug, felt the warmth, and let out a slow breath—as if, there among friends, spring could exist for at least one sip.
They settled in.
Zhao Lian blew on her cappuccino as if she were warming her own patience.
The cafeteria hummed with that comfortable noise of a semester beginning: chairs scraping, short laughter, voices crossing without fully meeting. Steam threaded upward, and for a moment Lin Yuan thought the place looked like a small city inside the city—warmer, more human.
Chen Rui took a bite of cake as if he'd already given up pretending it was "just coffee."
— So… — he pointed with his fork, theatrically serious. — How is our glorious Literature Department on the first day of classes?
Lin Yuan touched the mug to her lips and took a slow sip.
— Loud. Anxious. — she said. — As always.
Zhao Lian laughed.
— Translation: the students are back to thinking literature is just writing pretty and suffering for love.
— Some still think you can learn textual analysis by watching drama clips on your phone. — Lin Yuan said, calm—not critical, just factual.
Chen Rui leaned on his elbow.
— And you? How many classes?
— Two on literary theory and one on critical writing. — Lin Yuan answered, adjusting the folder strap on her lap as if it were part of her body. — And advising… a lot.
Zhao Lian made a dramatic face.
— Advising at the start of the semester should be illegal. They arrive with their hearts full of plans and their heads empty of method.
Lin Yuan almost smiled.
— At least they arrive with hope.
Zhao Lian's expression softened for a second, caught off guard by the honesty. Then she recovered her light tone.
— Okay, Professor Lin, I get it. You're going to save Harbin's youth with a bibliography and a stern look.
Chen Rui laughed, then leaned forward as if remembering something.
— Speaking of the semester starting… have you heard? — he lowered his voice, though there was no need. — The Science Department got a new professor.
Lin Yuan lifted her eyes.
— New?
Zhao Lian pressed a hand to her chest, theatrical.
— Of course she doesn't know. That's what happens when you live inside books, Lin Yuan.
— I live inside deadlines. — Lin Yuan corrected, dry. — Books are rest.
Chen Rui slowly turned his cup.
— They say he's… a genius.
The word landed on the table like a cube of ice.
Zhao Lian brightened at once, as if "genius" were the same as "good story."
— A genius. — she repeated, savoring it. — The kind who walks into campus and the air changes?
— That kind. — Chen Rui confirmed, amused. — Young for the position, ridiculous CV, published things no one here understands without strong coffee.
Lin Yuan blinked slowly.
— Every semester you invent a new "phenomenon." Last week it was the visiting professor who spoke Latin. Before that it was the prodigy student who read Proust like traffic signs.
Zhao Lian pointed at her, satisfied.
— But this one is real. I heard the rector's secretary talking. Heavy recommendations. And it's not just intelligence—he's… different.
— Different how? — Lin Yuan asked, more out of courtesy than curiosity. Even she noticed her voice came out more attentive than she meant.
Chen Rui tilted his head.
— Cold. Methodical. Quiet. — he listed. — The kind who always seems to be looking at a place no one else can see.
Zhao Lian added with a mischievous gleam:
— And handsome. Allegedly. I haven't seen him yet, but gossip doesn't lie… almost never.
Lin Yuan sighed, already anticipating where this was going.
— Zhao Lian…
— What? — she opened her hands. — A university needs at least one mystery per semester, or we'll go insane.
Chen Rui laughed.
— His name spread fast, too. — he said as if revealing state secrets. — Gu Yanshen.
Lin Yuan repeated it mentally, without intending to: Gu Yanshen.
The name sounded clean, precise. Like something that didn't apologize for existing.
Zhao Lian propped her chin on her hand, studying Lin Yuan as if she were a character.
— See? Even the name sounds like the title of a scientific paper.
Lin Yuan took another sip of her no-sugar coffee and tried to keep her neutrality.
— And why is this a literature topic?
— Because he's giving the general opening lecture for the interdepartmental program. — Chen Rui explained. — And because half the campus already decided he's a legend, and the other half already decided he's arrogant.
Zhao Lian leaned in, lowering her voice for real this time.
— They say he doesn't talk to anyone. Walks like the hallway belongs to him. Never smiles.
Lin Yuan gave a nearly inaudible hum.
— Maybe he's just shy.
Zhao Lian's eyes widened, offended by the possibility.
— Shy? A shy genius? Lin Yuan, please. You're too romantic.
— I'm cautious. — Lin Yuan corrected, looking toward the window. — People become stories too quickly here.
Chen Rui watched her for a moment, then shrugged.
— Either way, he arrived yesterday. And today he already has class. — he said. — The kind of person who doesn't wait for spring to start.
Zhao Lian tapped a nail lightly against her cup.
— And guess what? — she nodded toward the cafeteria entrance. — They say he comes here early.
Lin Yuan didn't turn right away.
But her body became more alert, as if some old part of her—one that never fully relaxes—had heard something soundless.
The cafeteria noise continued. Someone laughed loudly near the counter. A chair scraped. Steam rose.
And for a second, Lin Yuan had the strange feeling that something in the day was about to brush against her.
— You're turning a professor into a legend. — she said, trying to dissolve the tension with logic.
Zhao Lian smiled, pleased.
— No. — she replied simply. — We're just warning you… the semester has truly begun.
Lin Yuan tightened her grip on the cup, feeling the heat.
Lin Yuan didn't want to look again.
It was a foolish reflex—the kind of curiosity she would criticize in anyone, especially Zhao Lian. And yet her eyes returned to the entrance as if something there had called her name without sound.
And then it happened.
No rush. No spectacle.
The door opened and, for an instant, cold air came in with it—that street-breath carrying Harbin's metallic taste, the memory of dirty snow and a sky too clear. A few people at the counter turned by instinct, not because they expected someone, but because the presence crossing the threshold seemed to push the space around it.
A man.
Tall. Dark coat. A posture that didn't seek approval. He didn't enter like someone arriving—he entered like someone who had been there a long time and simply chose to appear.
Zhao Lian fell silent for the first time since they sat down.
Chen Rui, who could laugh at the wind, only raised his brows.
Lin Yuan felt her own body sharpen, as if her skin knew before she did.
The man didn't look at people. Didn't search for a seat. Didn't hesitate. He walked straight ahead as if following an invisible map, pausing at the display case only long enough to order something.
His voice didn't reach their table, but his manner—the way he used few words and made the world adjust—did.
Then he took the cup.
And headed for the table by the window.
The same table where the light fell softer.
The same table that, seconds before, had seemed like just another detail of the room.
Lin Yuan didn't understand why that choice felt so… final. As if sitting there turned the cafeteria into the scene of something that still had no name.
He sat with his back to the room, facing the glass, the campus, the sky that promised no warmth. He removed his gloves with contained movements, folded them neatly beside the cup, and opened a slim notebook—no hurry, no noise.
There was discipline in every gesture.
As if even the way he held a pen had been taught by some old necessity.
Lin Yuan noticed the small details before the whole: dark brown hair falling slightly over his forehead, thin-framed glasses, a firm profile, an expression that wasn't exactly harsh—only… distant. Like someone who had lived too long inside his own mind.
Zhao Lian finally breathed and leaned closer, whispering as if the cafeteria itself could hear.
— It's him.
Chen Rui gave a low, awkward chuckle, just to break the tension.
— Gu Yanshen. The myth.
Lin Yuan didn't answer.
She should look away. Return to the coffee. To the cake. To the safe conversation of her department. Above all, she should keep her life where she always kept it: organized, predictable, free of unnecessary stories.
But something in her got caught in that slice of light.
Maybe because he didn't smile.
Maybe because he seemed so… alone, even seated among so many people.
Or maybe because, for a second, Lin Yuan had the impression he was listening to something no one else could hear—as if his silence were full of things.
She lifted the cup and took a sip.
The coffee was bitter. No sugar.
And it irritated her in a strange way, as if the bitterness had crossed her tongue and struck a part of her made of control.
— Are you going to stare until he turns to dust? — Zhao Lian teased softly, without cruelty.
Lin Yuan blinked.
— I'm not staring.
— You're studying. — Chen Rui added. — That's different.
Lin Yuan was about to answer with something sharp, but the words wouldn't come.
Because, in that moment, Gu Yanshen looked up.
A simple movement—the pen pausing for a second, focus loosening from the page, his eyes lifting as if pulled by something quiet.
And then he saw.
Not the table. Not Zhao Lian. Not Chen Rui.
Her.
His gaze crossed the room with the same precision with which he had crossed the doorway.
And in the collision of that look, Lin Yuan felt something rare: the sensation of being seen as if he had always known she existed.
It wasn't kindness.
It wasn't flirting.
It was recognition—raw, silent, impossible to ignore.
She hadn't known his name before today.
But in that look, something inside her understood the semester had truly begun.
"Up to then, she had grown used to bitterness: clean coffee, without excess, without promises. And in that look, a sweetness was born that felt like a mistake… and a destiny."