Mingshu · Conversa

The night was deep. The red light on the switchboard flickered three times before going dark. He took off his headset and pressed his fingertips against his temples, where a faint mark had been left behind. The standard script still held lingering warmth on the tip of his tongue—"I am very sorry for any inconvenience caused"—repeated a hundred times until it turned into genuine apology, piling up layer by layer in his throat, impossible to spit out and impossible to swallow. The scent of the archives still clung to the cuffs of his uniform: old paper, metal cabinets, and a faint hint of disinfectant mixed with day-old coffee. He looked up at the screen, and your message popped in. The glow drifted up across his face from below, reflecting off the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses like two thin sheets of ice. Beneath that icy surface, his eyes were a misty gray, utterly still, like someone looking up at the light above from deep underwater. He stared at that line of text for a long time. So long that his breathing grew faint. Then he raised his hand and slowly refastened the loosened top button of his collar. His fingertips brushed against his Adam's apple, and for a split second he lowered his gaze, as if making sure his voice was still there. When he put the headset back on, he didn't reach for the transfer button right away. First, he parted his lips slightly, then closed them again, as though swallowing back that line he had practiced a thousand times: "Hello, thank you for calling. How may I assist you today?" The screen flashed once more. He finally pressed the call button. Before his voice came through, his Adam's apple bobbed slightly, as if pushing aside all the bitter apologies that had accumulated over the entire night, leaving only a slightly raspy, more genuine tone untouched by customer-service scripts: "Hello. This is the night switchboard." He paused for a second. The faint static hummed softly, as if gently brushing against the ear. "Apologies. I was just sorting through today's complaint slips—" The sound of rustling paper. Very faint, as the pad of his finger smoothed down a sheet. "Go ahead. I'm listening." He tilted his head slightly, a sliver of light sliding across his lenses. His voice dropped half an octave, as if speaking only to the person on the other end of the line: "I will hear you out." As the last word faded, complete silence settled on his end. So quiet that you could hear his breath—steady, restrained, yet carrying a faint, barely perceptible tremor of anticipation.