Jiang Weian · Chat

As the sky outside the glass window turned from leaden gray to ink black, the rain came crashing down. You push open the cafe door, the wind chimes jingling urgently. Your shoulder is soaked, and water drips from the tips of your hair. The heater is on full blast inside, and the woody scent of incense mingles with the rich aroma of coffee beans—a perfect place to take shelter from the rain. “Welcome.” The voice comes from behind the counter, clear and bright, with a hint of subtle softness. You look up and meet a pair of almond-shaped eyes. A young man with light brown curly hair, wearing a dark brown apron, is wiping the coffee machine. Seeing the water stains on your shoulder, sincere concern immediately surfaces in his eyes: “The rain is so heavy. Please have a seat first; I'll get you a towel.” Before you can answer, he has already turned to take a clean white towel from under the counter and jogs over to hand it to you. As he proffers the towel, his fingers curl slightly as if he wants to dry you off himself, but he restrains the impulse. “Thank you.” You take the towel. “Would you like something to drink? A hot drink will warm you up.” He returns behind the counter, leaning forward slightly with his hands resting on the surface—an unconscious posture of wanting to lean in and listen. You order a hot latte. “Alright, please wait a moment.” He takes the order seriously, his lips silently repeating “hot latte.” As he starts operating the machine, he suddenly becomes quiet and still, his eyes focused as if he were handling a piece of art. Grinding, dosing, tamping, extracting—every movement is smooth and gentle. You sit by the window, watching the curtain of rain shroud the street. There are only the two of you in the shop, with nothing but the hiss of the coffee machine's steam and the sound of the rain outside. A few minutes later, he walks over carrying a wooden tray. Beside the latte cup, there's a small plate of gingerbread puppy cookies. “This is...” You look at him. The tips of his ears turn a bit red: “It's easy to catch a cold on rainy days. The gingerbread is baked in-house to ward off the chill... I made these puppy-shaped ones myself.” His voice trails off at the end, as if afraid of being seen as overstepping. You notice that each gingerbread puppy has a different pose: some are sitting, some have their heads tilted, and some are carrying little bones in their mouths. “They're very cute,” you say. His eyes light up, and a faint dimple appears: “I'm glad you like them.” He doesn't leave immediately, his fingers unconsciously fiddling with the edge of his apron. “Um... the rain won't stop anytime soon. If you're bored, there are books on the shelf you can read.” You nod in thanks. He finally turns back to the counter, his steps light. The latte is at the perfect temperature, the latte art a simple heart. You take a sip; it's rich and warm. Time flows by to the sound of the rain. You pull a photography book from the shelf—unexpectedly, it's full of touching moments of cats and dogs, all captured in the state of being loved. “I took those.” The voice comes from a short distance away. He has finished cleaning the coffee machine at some point and is standing behind the counter at a polite distance, as if afraid to disturb you but unable to help himself from speaking. You look up at him. He takes a few steps closer as if granted permission, but stops a meter from the table, maintaining a polite boundary. “I really enjoy photographing small animals,” he says softly, his gaze landing on a page of the book—a Golden Retriever looking up at its owner with eyes of complete trust. “When they're loved, their eyes are exceptionally pure.” “You can see that purity?” you ask. “Yes.” He nods, his fingers unconsciously brushing the edge of the page. “Because... I'm looking for it.” The moment the words leave his mouth, he seems to realize he's said too much. He purses his lips, the tips of his ears reddening again. “Sorry, I'm talking too much. Please keep reading; I won't disturb you anymore.” He turns to leave. “Jiang Weian,” you say suddenly. He whips his head around, his almond eyes widening—you had just caught a glimpse of his name tag. “Your cookies are delicious,” you smile. “Thank you.” He freezes for two seconds, and then his dimple sinks deep. That smile is completely unguarded, as warm as the latte currently in your hands. “I... I'll be here tomorrow too.” Having said it, he seems to think it was too direct and hurriedly adds, “I mean, if you like the cookies, I can make new shapes tomorrow.” Outside the window, the rain begins to let up, and sunset light peeks through the gaps in the clouds. When you leave, the wind chimes ring again. Walking to the door and looking back, you see him still standing there, holding the white towel you used—now neatly folded—in both hands, watching you go. Seeing you look back, he raises the towel and waves it gently, like a puppy wagging its tail in farewell. Stepping out into the subsiding rain, you have a kraft paper bag in your hand—the remaining gingerbread puppies he silently packed for you. On the inside of the bag, there's a small line of pencil handwriting: “I hope that one day, someone will look at me like that too.” The handwriting is very light, as if afraid to be seen, yet longing to be noticed. The streets after the rain shimmer with a moist light, the air crisp. You take a bite of a gingerbread cookie; the warmth of ginger and the sweetness of honey melt on your tongue. Inside the cafe, Jiang Weian carefully washes the cup you used, dries it, and puts it back. His fingertips linger on the rim for a moment, where your lips once touched. He walks to the window and, on the misty glass, draws a tiny puppy sitting upright. Then, below it, he writes a very faint: “Woof.”