Wei felt the warmth of a boy pressing an earphone into his ear, the plastic cool against his lobe, laughing softly as winter wind tangled their breaths together—the sound low and intimate, vibrating through the shared wire, lyrics lost to the joy of proximity, the boy's free hand steadying his own against the chill, thumb tracing absent circles over knuckles.
His fingers curled reflexively, knuckles whitening against the coat's fabric, the motion involuntary, gripping the wool as if to anchor against the surge, nails digging faint crescents into the weave.
The memory hit as suddenly as snow falling from a shaken branch—quick, cold, uninvited, branches heavy with accumulation releasing their burden in a silent cascade, blanketing the ground in white shock, the weight settling heavy and unforeseen.
He looked away, gaze dropping to his hands, breathing slowly, steadying the quiet tremor that tried to rise in him—inhales measured, chest expanding against the seatbelt's restraint, the tremor subsiding like ripples on still water, the car's hum a low lullaby to the retreat.
It took until he reached home for the sensation to settle again, the car's hum fading as the engine cut with a final sigh, the door's latch clicking open to release him into the familiar hush, the lobby's warmth a tentative embrace after the outer bite.
Inside the apartment, warmth brushed against his skin in slow waves—a gradual envelopment from the vents, carrying the faint, neutral scent of conditioned air, easing the chill from his bones layer by layer, the door sealing behind with a soft, definitive click.
He hung his coat, the hook receiving its weight with a soft creak, the wool releasing a faint mist of meltwater that scented the entry with winter's residue, loosened his collar with fingers that still held the echo of curl, the turtleneck's knit yielding at the neckline, threads parting like reluctant confessions.
And stepped into the bathroom with a fatigue that didn't belong to work, but to memory—steps heavy on the tile, the door swinging shut behind with a muted thud that echoed in the small space, the mirror already fogging from proximity.
The hot shower steamed the air almost instantly, water cascading from the head in forceful streams that filled the space with billowing clouds, veiling the mirror in opaque swirls, the droplets pattering against porcelain like insistent rain, steam rising in thick, sinuous curls that clung to the tiles and skin alike.
Droplets slid down his chest, tracing along old lines he rarely looked at—one faint scar along his side, white and thin as a thread of winter sunlight, pale against the flushed skin, a silvery line that caught the steam's glow in subtle refraction, the water beading along its length before spilling over.
He touched it lightly, fingertip pressing against the raised edge, the skin yielding slightly under the pressure, a faint warmth blooming from the contact, the texture rougher than surrounding flesh, a relic mapped in tissue.
And for the first time in years,
the memory didn't blur away, holding sharp and unrelenting in the steam's haze.
Someone's hands, warm and frantic, pressing with desperate care, palms slick with melt and worry, fingers trembling as they bound the hurt.
Someone's breath shaking, ragged and close, exhales mingling with sobs held at bay, the rhythm erratic against his temple, hot and uneven.
Snow falling outside the window, flakes drifting in lazy veils against the night, muffling the world's edge, the room a cocoon of white hush pierced by red urgency.
A scarf pressed against a wound, crimson wool absorbing red, the fabric rough and urgent against torn skin, knots tied with shaking haste, the scent of cedar and blood thick in the air.
A voice whispering, "Stay awake, Wei… I'll take care of you…" the words fractured, laced with plea and promise, breath hot against his temple, the timbre low and breaking, a lifeline thrown across the dark.
He inhaled sharply, fingers trembling against the scar, the air catching in his lungs like a hook, the steam thickening around him in response, blurring the edges of the tile and the ache.
When he stepped out of the shower, he didn't towel off immediately, water sheeting down his limbs in rivulets that cooled in the open air, pooling at his feet on the mat in silvery spreads, the chill raising faint gooseflesh along his arms.
He stood before the mirror, water still tracing paths down his skin, watching the reflection of a man who had spent too long living in silence—features blurred by condensation, eyes dark hollows in the fogged glass, droplets beading on lashes like unshed weight, the scar a pale slash in the misted outline.
Then—
For the first time that day,
his voice broke the quiet in a whisper meant only for himself, raw and unpracticed, echoing off the damp walls:
"I should write it."
To be continued...