Wei stepped on, scanned his card with the familiar electronic chirp that barely registered anymore, and made his way to the last row—the same seat he always took, the window seat, the one spot where the world felt far away enough to ignore, tucked in the shadows where no one bothered to glance. The bus's interior lights cast a dim, yellowish haze over everything, turning faces into softened outlines and the floor into a scuffed mosaic of forgotten footprints.
He slid into the seat and let his body sink slightly into the cushioning, the vinyl creaking softly under his weight, molding to him like a reluctant embrace that had long since lost its firmness. Outside, the cold pressed its forehead against the glass, a silent insistence that fogged the edges and traced faint rivulets of condensation downward. He hesitated, his fingers lingering on the edge of the window frame, the metal chilled even through the thin barrier of his glove. Then, with a deliberate push, he opened it just a little—a narrow gap, no more than an inch, but enough to invite the night in.
A thread of winter wind slipped in.
Sharp.
Fresh.
Unforgiving.
It hit his face first, a quick slap of crisp air that stung his skin and made his eyes water just a fraction, carrying the faint, clean scent of frost-kissed pavement and distant evergreens. Then it dipped lower, brushing his throat with an icy finger that raised goosebumps in its wake, before weaving down to his hands, where it tangled in the spaces between his knuckles like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave. A tremor moved through him, starting in his fingertips and rippling up his arms—a subtle shake he tried to steady by clenching his jaw, but he didn't close the window. The discomfort was a tether, pulling him firmly into the moment, sharpening the edges of his thoughts against the dull ache that had settled in earlier.
He watched his own fingers—pale, numb, almost still—as they lay splayed on his lap, the veins faint blue lines under translucent skin, moving only when he willed them to curl. The cold had a way of making everything feel distant, like his body was borrowing from a season that didn't quite fit anymore. He brought them closer to his lips, cupping them loosely and breathed lightly onto them, the warm puff of air visible for a heartbeat before dissipating into nothing.
It didn't help.
The warmth evaporated too quickly, leaving behind only the echo of his own breath. He tucked them into his coat pocket, burrowing deep into the wool, but even there, they didn't warm. The lining felt threadbare against his skin, a flimsy shield that trapped more chill than it repelled, and he flexed them experimentally, chasing circulation that stubbornly eluded him.
"It's winter," he whispered, almost like he was telling the wind a secret it might carry off into the night. "So soon… faster than last year." The words hung in the air for a moment, soft and solitary, blending with the low drone of the engine.
His gaze softened as he looked outside, the bus's gentle sway rocking him into a rhythm that matched the slow crawl of traffic. The first layer of frost had begun coating the sidewalks, a delicate lacework of ice crystals that caught the light and shimmered faintly, turning ordinary concrete into something etched with quiet precision. The orange streetlights blurred slightly through the thin film of cold, their beams diffused into warm halos that wavered like candle flames in a draft, casting long shadows that danced across parked cars and shuttered storefronts.
"I should unpack my winter clothes…" Wei murmured. A small breath escaped him, visible and fleeting, curling upward like smoke from a hidden fire. "Time to say goodbye to autumn."
The words slipped out naturally.
Simple.
Ordinary.
Just something someone riding a bus alone in winter might say, a casual inventory of the shifting days, spoken to the empty air as if it could nod in agreement.
But the bus hummed quietly, its vibrations thrumming through the seat and into his bones, a constant undercurrent that underscored the isolation.
The window let in thin streaks of freezing air, each gust a reminder of the boundary he'd cracked, slipping past his collar and raising fresh shivers along his neck.
The city lights moved past slowly, streaking by in blurred trails—neon signs flickering through the flurry, headlights cutting swaths through the gathering dark.
And somehow—
those simple words carried a softness he hadn't intended.
Like they belonged to another conversation.
With another person.
On another winter.
A winter where the words wouldn't fall into silence, but into the easy give-and-take of shared space. Where someone would've laughed softly and said:
"You're so dramatic, Wei."
The imagined response lingered, light and teasing, the kind of tone that could cut through the chill without effort, turning the ordinary into a moment worth savoring.
"I'll help you unpack. You'll just mess everything up anyway."
Practical, affectionate, with that undercurrent of care wrapped in mock exasperation, hands that would reach over without asking, sorting through drawers with familiar efficiency.
"Xiao Wei… don't look at me like that."
A hush falling then, the words trailing into something deeper, eyes meeting in the half-light, the air between thickening with the weight of things left unsaid but fully understood.
But the seat beside him was empty.
There was only the quiet.
Only the steady rhythm of the road beneath the wheels, the tires whispering over salted asphalt, the occasional jolt over a pothole that rattled the overhead racks.
Only the cold.
A cold that felt too familiar.
Too alive.
It seeped in through the cracks he'd allowed, wrapping around him like a second skin, insistent and intimate, as if it remembered him from seasons past and had come calling with old grievances. Wei rested his head against the icy window, the glass cool and unyielding against his temple, sending a fresh wave of numbness radiating outward. His breath formed a faint fog on the glass, blooming in irregular patches that he watched expand and fade with each exhale.
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 twirled in lazy spirals, caught in the bus's slipstream before settling onto the world below, accumulating in gentle piles on ledges and branches, muting the city's edges one layer at a time.
Wei's eyes followed their descent.
Slow.
Gentle.
Unhurried.
Each flake a solitary traveler, unburdened by destination, surrendering to gravity with quiet grace. And with every falling snowflake, something in his chest tightened—a subtle constriction, like a thread pulling ever so slightly, gathering the loose ends of memory into a knot he couldn't quite loosen.