The mornings in Milan always carried a hint of damp light.
Li Ming dragged her luggage and stood on an old street. The building number was unremarkable; if she hadn't confirmed the address in advance, she might have missed the heavy wooden door entirely.
This hotel had been booked by her assistant on Booking according to her preferences. It was not an ordinary hotel, but an old building tucked in the city center—perhaps hundreds of years ago, it had belonged to a prominent family.
She pushed the door open, and the sounds of the street fell away behind her.
The courtyard was small, the stone slabs slightly darkened, the walls mottled with the marks of time. The air grew suddenly quiet, as if she had stepped into a different rhythm.
Beyond the courtyard, an entire floor unfolded. At its center was an unusually spacious living room, high ceilings letting light fall slowly. This had once perhaps been the center of banquets and daily life; now, a few rattan chairs, bookshelves, and coffee tables made it a place for travelers to pause briefly.
Several corridors extended outward, leading to individual rooms. The layout was irregular, as if it had grown naturally over time.
Her room was upstairs.
Next to the staircase, there was a small elevator.
It could barely fit a single person with a suitcase.
The wooden interior was polished smooth and warm, its color deep, with narrow brass strips embedded along the edges. The buttons were somewhat old; pressing them met with a slight resistance.
She stepped in, and the door closed slowly behind her.
The elevator began to rise.
There was no noticeable sound, only the faint vibration of machinery. At that moment, she felt a strange sensation—as if she were being lifted out of the present, carried to an uncertain time.
⸻
The room was a small suite, utterly quiet.
She set down her luggage and stood by the window, staring at the rooftops in the distance.
This time, she did not intend to come and go as she had in the past.
⸻
After breakfast, she went to Rossana Orlandi's courtyard—always her first stop during Milan Design Week.
The courtyard was still crowded with people, as if all the designers, media, and fashion figures in the world had gathered here. White-haired Rossana, wearing oversized round glasses, lifted her chin slightly, surrounded by reporters. Her voice carried cadence and clarity, confident and measured.
Every visit here offered a different visual impact.
Li Ming found a chair in a corner and sat down. Even having already seen the exhibition, she remained absorbed in the experience, reluctant to leave immediately.
Sunlight fell across her face.
In that instant, she saw a familiar figure—a tall, lean man standing at the edge of the crowd.
Chen Tao.
More than twenty years had passed, yet she recognized him at once.
He turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Time seemed to pause gently.
They had once been students in the same university architecture department.
He was a year ahead of her and had been the captain of the men's volleyball team; Li Ming was the captain of the women's team.
Their training schedules often overlapped.
Whenever that happened, Chen Tao would always give up the court, letting the women's team go first.
It was a natural gesture of courtesy.
And in those moments, she began to notice him.
Later, they met frequently in classrooms, on the courts, in the dorms.
Their gazes lingered, their words carried warmth.
Slowly, they drew closer.
They became each other's first love.
⸻
At that time, they were too young.
After graduation, Chen Tao was assigned to work in Beijing.
Li Ming had hoped he would stay in Harbin.
Disagreements began.
No one was right, no one was wrong.
It was just that they didn't yet know how to yield to each other.
When they parted, there was no quarrel.
It simply ended quietly.
He returned to Beijing, later changing jobs and residences.
Their contact gradually faded.
Since then, there had been no communication.
Over twenty years.
Like an elevator slowly rising, carrying them to different floors, never able to return.
⸻
Now, Chen Tao lived in Paris, working for an architectural magazine. That afternoon, he had arranged to meet the editor at a city exhibition during Milan Design Week.
When they parted, they exchanged contact information and agreed to have dinner that evening.
⸻
In the afternoon, among the crowd at Fuorisalone, Li Ming saw Chen Tao again.
He stood before an exhibit, profile focused.
She did not approach him.
She simply watched from afar.
As if to confirm something—
He truly existed.
⸻
That evening, they met at Giacomo Arengario.
Outside the window, the cathedral's silhouette rose.
They spoke of design, of the years that had passed.
Words were few, yet gradually softened.
⸻
Night deepened.
Chen Tao accompanied her back to her lodging.
The light at the door was dim.
Li Ming paused.
Then she sat on the steps.
Tears fell suddenly.
Without warning.
She hugged her knees, her whole body trembling slightly.
The emotions she had suppressed for years poured out in that instant.
She remembered that summer.
He had stood there, saying he had to return to Beijing.
She had not said, "Stay."
Nor had she said, "Don't go."
She had only watched him leave.
That moment had been stored in her heart, for more than twenty years.
What if things had been different?
What if she had held on a little longer?
These questions had never had answers.
⸻
Chen Tao stood beside her, watching.
He did not speak immediately.
After a while, he sat down slowly.
Next to her.
Just like in the old days.
He gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
She did not resist.
She leaned in.
⸻
Nearby, the small elevator stood quietly.
As if nothing had happened.
Yet it seemed to witness everything.
The mornings in Washington were drier than in Milan.
When the plane landed, the city unfolded outside the window. Straight streets, orderly neighborhoods, clear skylines—everything appeared certain and stable.
She looked, without much emotion.
Simply returned quietly.
⸻
The next day, she went to her office as usual.
The drawings were spread across the table, emails popping up one after another. Her assistant reported the project progress, speaking quickly.
She nodded, occasionally asking questions.
Her tone was steady, her judgment clear.
Everything as normal.
⸻
During the meeting, someone mentioned a European case.
"If we refer to the approach in Paris—"
Her fingers paused lightly at the edge of the document.
Just for a brief moment.
Then continued scrolling.
No one noticed.
⸻
At noon, she went alone to her usual café.
Steam rose slowly from the cup.
Suddenly, she remembered those days in Milan.
That damp light.
The stone walls of the courtyard.
A familiar figure at the edge of the crowd.
That encounter had been quiet.
More like a faint echo—
Like a distant toll of a bell.
Slow to arrive.
Yet lingering in her heart for a long time.
⸻
She did not dwell further.
She just lowered her head and took a sip of coffee.
Bitter in taste.
⸻
In the afternoon, she went to the construction site.
The wind was strong, the machinery noisy. Workers busied themselves, the site slightly chaotic.
She stood there, watching the walls being covered layer by layer.
Progress moved forward.
Everything pushed ahead.
She realized suddenly—
Some things were covered gradually in the same way.
Not disappearing.
Just temporarily out of sight.
⸻
Returning to her apartment in the evening.
The room was quiet.
She set down her bag, changed shoes, moved with her usual orderly precision.
Water boiled, she brewed a cup of black tea.
Her phone lay on the desk.
The screen lit up.
She glanced at it.
Did not open.
⸻
She did not scroll through the newly saved number.
Not forgotten.
Just untouched.
⸻
Those days in Milan were not long.
Exhibitions, meals, walks.
Few words were spoken.
Many more remained unspoken.
Yet after returning, those unsaid parts gradually unfolded in her heart.
Without boundaries.
Without closure.
⸻
In Milan, she learned that Chen Tao had settled in Paris.
His wife was French.
They had a five-year-old son, adorable and lively.
Life was concrete and stable, with routines and foreseeable futures.
Like a clear line, stretching forward.
⸻
When she heard this, she was calm.
Did not ask much.
As if listening to something unrelated to her.
⸻
But she knew clearly in her heart—
There was a place he had always held.
Never truly replaced over the years.
Not deliberately preserved.
⸻
She had also experienced marriage.
Life had moved forward.
Relationships came and went.
Beginnings and endings.
Everything flowed naturally.
⸻
Yet that place remained unchanged.
⸻
Twenty years had not faded this feeling.
Instead, it had slowly settled over time.
The longer, the clearer.
⸻
Sometimes she wondered—
Had she gradually beautified and reconstructed him in memory?
Made him more perfect.
Closer to some ideal image.
⸻
She did not pursue the thought further.
The answer was not important.
⸻
She only knew—
She had never truly let go.
⸻
Night deepened.
Washington's lights came on, one by one.
Orderly, stable, without shadows.
She sat by the window.
Did not turn on the light.
⸻
She suddenly remembered that elevator.
Rising slowly.
Silent.
Yet carrying people away.
⸻
Later she understood—
Some people do not leave in a single moment.
They are gradually carried away over time.
And at some completely unexpected moment, returned to your presence.
⸻
A car passed outside.
Light swept across the glass, disappearing quickly.
She remained seated.
Motionless.
As if waiting for something.
Or perhaps—
Waiting for nothing at all.