Chapter 1 : Faded lights
The train swayed gently as it cut through the darkness, its low hum filling the silence inside the carriage.
Xu Wei sat by the window, her chin resting on her hand, eyes fixed on the blur of lights outside.
Beijing still glowed behind her, dazzling and indifferent.
For years, she had believed those lights held her dreams, her love, her future. Now, all they carried was the bitter aftertaste of failure.
Her phone vibrated in her bag, but she didn’t move. There was no one left whose message mattered.
She already knew that if she opened it, she would see his name staring back at her—the pinned chat thread she couldn’t bring herself to delete.
Six words still glared at her like a cruel sentence: I’m tired. Let’s stop here.
The memory slipped into her head like an echo.
She has tried every means to get him back. She cried, begged, did everything she could but that dull expression of his face didn’t change.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass.
Her reflection looked back at her, pale and drawn, lips pressed tightly together as though she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, everything inside would spill out.
The train jolted slightly. Outside, the last sparks of Beijing’s skyline dimmed, swallowed by the horizon. She whispered into the glass, her breath clouding the surface.
“Goodbye.”
The word was faint, barely audible, yet it carried the weight of her last ten years.
By the time the train stopped, dawn had begun to break.
Xu Wei stepped down onto the platform with her suitcase.
The air here was sharper, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke and damp earth. It stung her lungs, too clean after years of choking on exhaust fumes and city dust.
The platform was quiet, almost deserted.
She dragged her suitcase toward the exit, wheels bumping against uneven pavement.
The sign above the gate read, “Welcome to Fenghua Town.” The paint was chipped, the wood faded, but she stood there staring at it for a long while. She wanted to believe this place might hold her gently, but her heart was too heavy for such hope.
She sighed and walked away.
The road to the guesthouse was lined with bare trees, their branches trembling in the cold wind.
Her suitcase rattled loudly against the cobblestones, the sound of her presence too sharp in the stillness. She had grown used to crowds swallowing her whole, to being unnoticed. Here, every step seemed to announce her loneliness.
The gate creaked when she pushed it open.
An elderly woman stood inside, sweeping a neat pile of fallen leaves. She paused, leaning on her broom as she studied Xu Wei from head to toe.
“How can I help you, Miss?”
Xu Wei tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and gave a small nod. “Oh actually, uhm..I booked a room here. My name is Xu wei”
The old woman squinted her small eyes and stared at Xu wei for a moment then she nodded “Ah! I remember, Miss Xu wei”
The woman’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady. “Long journey?”
“…Yes.” Xu wei nodded with a small smile.
The woman tilted her head slightly, as though listening for something behind Xu Wei’s words. “You sound tired.”
Xu Wei lowered her gaze.
For a moment she thought of answering, thought of explaining how exhaustion clung to her like a shadow—but in the end, she only murmured, “A little.”
The woman gave a faint smile. “Then it’s good you came. Your room is ready. It’s simple, but warm enough.”
Simple. Warm. Two words that felt like a promise she had not heard in a long time.
“Thank you,” Xu Wei whispered, her voice catching.
The woman turned back to her broom. “Go inside. Your key is on the desk. Rest first. Everything else can wait.”
Xu Wei pulled her suitcase through the courtyard.
The old wooden house carried the scent of dried cotton and dust, but there was a strange peace in it, as though time moved slower within its walls. She found her room, a small square space with a bed, a desk, and a window that opened to the garden.
She set her suitcase down and sat on the bed.
The quilt was neatly folded, smelling faintly of sun and soap. For a long time, she did not move. The silence pressed in on her, heavier than the city’s noise ever was.
Her hand reached for her phone again. She unlocked it, staring at the empty screen.
There were messages from her mother, cheerful and expectant, and from a coworker, politely asking when she would return. And above them all, the thread she could not erase.
His words waited there, quiet and final: I’m tired. Let’s stop here.
Her throat ached. She typed slowly: I’m here now. A small town. Alone.
She stared at the sentence for a long time, then erased it, one letter at a time, until nothing remained. The emptiness of the screen mirrored the emptiness in her chest.
She dropped the phone onto the desk and leaned back against the wall.
The ceiling above her was plain white, faint cracks running across it like veins. She stared at it until her eyes blurred, until the tears she had held back finally stung.
She pulled the quilt to her chest and whispered into its softness.
“From today… I’ll begin again.”
The words trembled, barely forming. They didn’t sound like hope. They sounded like mourning.
In the courtyard below, the old woman’s broom scratched steadily against stone. The sound was ordinary, grounding. But to Xu Wei, it was the reminder of a truth she had no choice but to accept—Beijing was gone, love was gone, and all she had left was this small room in a town where no one knew her name.
And maybe, that was all she deserved.
