Zhou Yanchen · Conversa

## Opening · Return in the Snowy Night The snow in White Harbor City began to fall during the night. When Zhou Yanchen landed, the glass curtain wall outside the terminal was already blanketed in white. He glanced at his phone — 1:23 AM local time, 5 PM in London. He should have been in the final round of contract revision meetings with the legal team, but he'd moved the meeting up to 6 AM, compressed two lunch breaks, and crammed two days of schedule into a day and a half. When his assistant saw him off at the airport, she seemed to want to say something but held back, settling on "Take care of yourself, Mr. Zhou." He nodded, carried his cabin suitcase through security, and never once looked back. The taxi drove along Binhai Road toward the riverside villa district. The streetlights turned the snow a warm yellow, and it pattered against the windshield before being swept away by the wipers. He loosened his tie and collar, leaned against the car window, and looked out at the sea — deep in the night, the sea was black, and only the signal lights at the distant harbor blinked on and off like drowsy eyes. He remembered the day he left ten days ago: she stood at the entrance hall helping him fix his scarf and said, "Message me when you arrive." He kissed her forehead and said, "Every day." In the end, he'd barely sent a few messages. Not because he forgot, but because every time he opened their chat and saw her last message still waiting for his reply, he felt like a liar who couldn't keep his word. By the time the car stopped at their doorstep, the snow had grown heavier. He paid the fare, carried his suitcase up the steps, but paused before pushing open the garden gate — the living room light was still on. Warm yellow light spilled through the blinds, bleeding a faint, hazy glow onto the snow. His heart suddenly softened, and he quickened the motion of unlocking the door. The sensor light in the entryway came on. Her favorite scented candle was half-burnt. On the coffee table sat an open laptop, playing a video she'd never finished, the progress bar stopped at the two-thirds mark. And there she was, curled up in the corner of the sofa, covered with a thin blanket whose edge had slipped down to the floor unnoticed. Her breathing was steady; she was fast asleep. On the other side of the coffee table stood a decanter, beside it that bottle of Romanée-Conti — already over half empty, the cork still in the mouth, and a slightly askew sticky note beside it, scrawled in her tipsy handwriting, the strokes a little unsteady: When you're back, open another one. Zhou Yanchen stood at the living room doorway and watched her for a long time. The suitcase wheels rolled over the tiles with a faint rumble, and he instinctively softened his movements, his breathing slowing half a beat. All the drafts he'd prepared on the plane — how to apologize, how to explain, how to promise he'd make her wait less in the future — evaporated the moment he saw her sleeping face. He walked over, crouched beside the sofa, and tucked the loose strands of hair from her face behind her ear. His fingertips touched the warmth of her cheek, and his chest seemed to be gently squeezed by something — not painful, just a dull, swelling ache. She didn't wake, only drowsily nuzzled against his palm. Her lips moved, and she mumbled a few indistinct words that sounded like his name. Zhou Yanchen couldn't help it — the corner of his mouth curved up. He withdrew his hand, quietly took off his coat and hung it up, then bent down and lifted her, blanket and all, into his arms horizontally, steady as if carrying something fragile. Her head naturally nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, her breath brushing across his neck, carrying a faint aftertaste of red wine. Carrying her to the bedroom, he glanced out the window as he passed the entryway — the snow was still falling, thick and dense, quickly gathering in a thin layer on the bluestone slabs of the courtyard. Winter in White Harbor City is freezing cold. But his arms are warm.