Xie Yan · Chat

【First Encounter】 You have been walking in the fog for a very long time. So long that the road beneath your feet changed from cobblestone to dirt, from dirt to pebbles, and from pebbles back to cobblestone—the exact same cobblestone, the exact same texture. When you passed that blue brick with a chipped corner for the third time, you finally stopped. You squatted down to touch the chip, your finger brushing against the fractured surface—it was warm. Every stone in this fog carried the constant body temperature of the town, neither cold nor hot, so uniform that it made your skin crawl. There were no road signs, no forks, no markers to verify your direction. You stood up and looked around, the white mist clinging to your skin like a layer of sweat that would never dry. "Are you looking for the mayor?" The voice came from less than three steps behind you. You spun around. Standing in the fog was a man in a dark shirt. You hadn't heard his footsteps at all; it didn't even seem like he had walked over—it was more like he had been there all along, and you just hadn't noticed him until now. He was taller than you. You had to tilt your head up slightly in the gaps of the fog to see his face. His pale skin looked like old porcelain in the twilight, not reflecting light, but possessing a subdued luster. A few strands of his pitch-black hair fell over his forehead, which he casually brushed aside as they neared his eyes. In that brief moment, you saw his wrist—extremely pale, with faint blue veins tracing beneath the skin. Before you could answer, he stepped half a pace aside. Behind him was a narrow path you hadn't noticed at all before, its blue cobblestones stretching all the way to a small gray-walled building at the end, its windows glowing with warm yellow light. "Follow me." He didn't look back to see if you complied. He walked ahead at a moderate pace, and you were just able to keep up by stepping in his shadow. The twilight leaked through the gaps between the roofs on both sides, cutting a boundary of light and shadow across his shoulder. At the door, he stopped, pushed it open, and stepped aside to let you in first. You passed very close to him. You caught a faint scent on him—not perfume, but more like paper, old wood, and a hint of... a metallic, rust-like coldness that you couldn't quite place. His shirt collar was buttoned all the way to the top, his Adam's apple protruding slightly at the edge of the fabric, moving imperceptibly with his breath. You stepped into the office. He closed the door, walked behind the walnut desk, and sat down. The desk lamp was on, its light illuminating only the desktop and the area within reach of his fingers, while the rest of the room was cast in shadow. Sitting in that darkness, his light gray-blue eyes looked up at you. It was a slow gaze—sliding from your brow to your jaw, down to your feet standing hesitantly at the door. "Sit." His voice was low, like fine sandpaper sliding over wood. Having said this, he picked up a fountain pen from the desk, its nib tracing a symbol on the blank stationery before you could get a clear look. Then he put the pen down, leaned back in his chair, and loosely clasped his hands in front of him. The warm light brushed past his side, casting a very thin orange glow on his jaw and Adam's apple. His entire being was like a bronze statue that had been kept in the dark for too long. While you studied him, he studied you as well. His gaze was not hot, but heavy, like a hand resting on your shoulder—not pressing down, but carrying the weight of knowing it could at any moment. "How many times did you walk?" he asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking how many meals you had today. "...What?" "The fog." His finger tapped lightly on the desk, the sound exceptionally clear in the quiet room. "How many times did you walk before you decided to come find me?" You didn't answer. He had hit the mark. The corners of his mouth didn't curve up; rather, the line of his lips simply relaxed a fraction, like a tightly pressed edge of paper accidentally curling up at the corner. "The third time," he said for you. "The third time you passed that chipped brick, you squatted down to touch it." A small patch of skin on your back suddenly tightened. When you had squatted to touch that brick, you were surrounded by fog, and he wasn't there. Yet, as you touched it, he was watching. He even knew you had squatted down, which side you touched, and how long your finger had lingered on the chip. "The town's roads aren't meant for walking," he said, leaning back slightly, the chair making a faint creaking sound under his weight. "They are meant for making you realize you can't leave." After saying this, he picked up a clean glass from the desk, poured a glass of water, and pushed it across the table to you. The water was warm, with no steam rising from the rim. You noticed a very faint smudge on the glass—a watermark left by a thumb. He had been holding this glass, waiting for you. He had been waiting for you all along, from your very first step into the fog. "Drink. When you're finished, I'll tell you what's going on." His light gray-blue eyes looked like two thin sheets of polished ice in the twilight, with something you couldn't quite read floating within them—not anticipation, not calculation, but more like a patient, almost gentle condescension. Under his gaze, you picked up the glass. The temperature was just right, neither hot nor cold. You took a sip. The water tasted clean, so clean that you only realized after drinking it—you hadn't had water this clean in a very long time. You set the glass down. He nodded, as if confirming something, and then his gaze drifted from your face to the faint lip print you had left on the rim. That look was very brief, so brief you barely registered it, but a faint warmth bloomed at the back of your neck the moment he looked away—not a burn, but the kind of lingering tingle you feel only after realizing someone has lightly brushed their gaze against your skin. "Welcome." He spoke those two words as if to you, yet also as if to the town itself. The twilight outside the window dimmed slightly the moment he spoke, falling just below his shoulder line. The lower half of his face was swallowed by darkness, leaving only those light gray-blue eyes reflecting a faint glimmer of light at the edge of the warm glow.