The warmth inside the café hit Li Wei like a memory. It was quiet but alive the low tune of conversation, the occasional hiss from the espresso machine. A radio played some soft indie tune overhead, something he could hear but not understanding. The contrast to the rain-slicked street outside was almost painful.
He stepped farther in, eyes scanning the small tables lined against the window, most occupied by people in pairs or with laptops glowing like miniature lighthouses in the dim room. At the far end, he found a seat by the window the corner table, the one that felt just out of the way enough to breathe. He slid into the chair, hung his coat over the backrest, and placed his satchel on the table like it contained something sacred.
His old PC was back in the basement, groaning under its age, but for now he scribbled in his notebook, the one he used for drafts, or what he still dared to call drafts. The page was blank, expectant. He clicked the pen twice. Then again.
He didn't write.
Instead, he sat there, listening.
Three seats down, at a table crowded with half-finished pastries and open laptops, three young men were speaking too loudly. Writers. It wasn't hard to tell. Their enthusiasm had the distinct edge of people who hadn't yet learned how fickle the muse could be. Or maybe they had, and had simply gotten lucky this time.
"Yeah, my contract came in last week. Five-book deal. It still doesn't feel real."
"I told you they'd want more of that dystopian stuff. You found your angle, man."
"And me? My fantasy series broke 10,000 reviews. I checked this morning. My inbox is full of fanmail. Like, actual people who care about what I made."
Li Wei's pen stopped moving. He didn't turn, didn't stare. But he heard every word like a blade pressed gently against his ribs.
He had been them once.
Before the silence. Before his stories became burdens instead of lifelines.
There was a time he would have leaned over, smiled, and asked them, "Hey, do you guys have any advice for someone trying to get back in?" He even imagined it. One of them looking up, welcoming. Encouraging. Maybe they'd even offer to read something. Maybe he'd feel like a writer again.
But he didn't move.
Because the truth was, he wasn't trying to get back in. He didn't even know if he could.
A barista approached quietly, her apron dusted with flour and cinnamon. "Hi there. Can I get you anything?"
Li Wei blinked, like surfacing from underwater.
He looked at her, tried to speak, then shook his head. "Just water for now please."
She gave him a polite nod and stepped away. He waited a bit longer, watching the steam rise from a nearby mug. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the draft manuscript creased, weather-worn, and still unfinished.
But instead of adding to it, he opened a new page.
At the top, in his neatest handwriting, he wrote:
Death is a Story That Ends Mid-Sentence.
And for the first time in a long time, the pen didn't feel so heavy.
but he's blank again.