1980s - Chapter 1

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 The first time Zhao Rui saw him, the night smelled of roasted chestnuts and wet asphalt.

It had rained earlier that evening — a lazy, summer drizzle that left puddles glinting like dull silver coins on the cracked pavement. Streetlights hummed softly, their weak bulbs throwing patches of gold into the misty air.

He had been walking home from the post office, a single sheet of paper folded neatly inside his shirt pocket — his new temporary residence permit, obtained after days of queuing and answering bureaucratic questions with a smile too thin to be real.

He still wasn’t used to this world’s quiet.

People talked, argued, laughed, but none of it carried the edge of desperation that used to slice through the air of the apocalypse. It was almost… human again. Almost like a memory of what had been lost.

The smell of fried dough drifted from a nearby stall. Radios played tinny music, love songs he didn’t recognize. A small group had gathered in the open square — someone was showing a film on a hanging white sheet. The light from the projector fluttered across faces, washing them in monochrome nostalgia.

He stopped for a moment. Watched.

The movie was In the Springtime, a romance about a young couple torn apart by circumstance. A story about waiting, longing, regret. People watched with rapt attention — some laughed, others wiped tears discreetly with the corners of their sleeves.

And then, through the flickering beam of the projector, Zhao Rui saw him.

A tall figure standing a few paces behind the crowd, hands shoved into his pockets, dark hair slightly damp from the rain. His posture was casual, the kind of easy balance only people who worked with their hands seemed to have — strong forearms under rolled-up sleeves, an unbuttoned collar revealing the slope of a tanned neck.

He was watching the film, but not really. His gaze kept drifting — to the people, the sky, the small things. Like he wasn’t just seeing, but measuring.

For a long moment, Zhao Rui forgot to breathe.

The man’s expression wasn’t remarkable — just quiet, maybe a bit distant — yet something about him drew the eye. His presence was the kind that settled easily into a space, not loud but undeniable. The kind of calm confidence Zhao Rui hadn’t seen in years.

He didn’t know what possessed him to linger. Perhaps it was the fatigue of endless solitude. Or maybe it was the way the stranger stood half in shadow, half in light, as if caught between two worlds — much like himself.

The film ended with applause. The crowd dispersed in a wave of chatter and laughter.

Zhao Rui turned to leave — and collided straight into someone.

The impact jolted him back to reality.

A firm hand shot out to steady him.

“Sorry,” said a voice, low and roughened by the chill. “Didn’t see you there.”

Zhao Rui looked up.

It was him. The man from the streetlight.

Up close, he was even more arresting — not in the polished, magazine-cover kind of way, but like a portrait painted in earth tones and sunlight. His features were cut sharp by work and wind, his eyes dark and steady. His shirt smelled faintly of iron and soap, the scent of labor and clean sweat.

Zhao Rui opened his mouth, but his words caught. “It’s fine,” he managed finally, voice softer than he intended.

The man studied him for a second longer, then smiled — brief, almost apologetic. “You’re not from around here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Zhao Rui’s stomach tightened. He noticed.

“New in town,” he said, tone deliberately flat.

The man nodded, letting it go. “You should head home before it rains again. Weather’s fickle this month.”

Then he stepped back, the weak yellow light tracing the line of his jaw, and disappeared down the side street like a shadow melting into darker ones.

Zhao Rui stood there a long time after that, watching the direction he’d gone.

He didn’t even know his name.

Days passed.

The town returned to its sleepy rhythm — markets in the morning, factory whistles at noon, quiet alleys in the evening. Zhao Rui resumed his routine: odd jobs at the supply depot, simple meals, long walks.

But sometimes, he caught himself glancing toward the factory gates when the workers changed shifts.

And then one afternoon, he saw him again.

The man was pushing a cart stacked with metal parts, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked up briefly, caught Zhao Rui’s gaze across the street — and smiled.

This time, the smile reached his eyes.

“Hey, stranger,” he said when Zhao Rui found himself walking closer. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I live nearby,” Zhao Rui replied, trying to sound casual.

“That so?” The man set down the cart and wiped his hands with a rag. “You never said your name the other night.”

“I didn’t.”

A pause. The man laughed quietly. “So, what is it?”

“…Zhao Rui.”

“Mm. Zhao Rui.” The man tested the name, then nodded as though it suited him. “Li Ming. I work at the mechanical plant.”

“Figures,” Zhao Rui said before he could stop himself. “You look like you work with machines.”

Li Ming chuckled. “Is that a compliment?”

Zhao Rui hesitated, then answered honestly. “It is.”

That earned him another smile — softer this time, something warm flickering at the edge of it.

They started crossing paths more often after that.

At the market. Near the bicycle repair shop. By the narrow alley that led to Zhao Rui’s rented room.

Sometimes Li Ming would wave from afar; sometimes he’d walk alongside him, talking about mundane things — work quotas, the new television sets arriving from the city, how the factory canteen’s soup was always too thin.

Zhao Rui mostly listened. But little by little, words began to slip out.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Li Ming teased one evening.

Zhao Rui looked at him. “I talk when it matters.”

Li Ming grinned. “Then I’ll make it matter.”

And somehow, he did.

It was in those quiet, unguarded hours that Zhao Rui began to realize how dangerous hope could be.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. The apocalypse had burned that out of him, left only caution and hunger and an aching kind of emptiness. Yet here he was, catching himself waiting for a familiar silhouette at dusk, for the sound of Li Ming’s laugh echoing down the street.

He didn’t understand it — how a simple man from 1980 could unbalance someone who had survived the end of all things.

Maybe it was the way Li Ming listened without suspicion. Or how he never asked questions that cornered. Maybe it was the kindness hidden behind his jokes, the quiet strength in his calloused hands.

Whatever it was, it made Zhao Rui remember that before the apocalypse, before fear and fire, he had once been human too.

One night, the rain returned — heavier this time. Zhao Rui was sitting on the veranda of his rented room when a knock startled him.

Li Ming stood there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. He held a small thermos and a crooked grin.

“Rain caught me halfway home. Thought I’d wait it out here,” he said.

Zhao Rui blinked, then moved aside silently to let him in.

The air inside smelled faintly of damp wood and instant noodles. Li Ming sat down on the small stool, poured out two cups of hot tea.

They drank in silence, listening to the rain hammer the roof.

“You live alone,” Li Ming said quietly.

Zhao Rui didn’t deny it.

“Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Zhao Rui looked at him — really looked this time. At the way the lamplight softened his features, at the faint smile that didn’t quite hide the curiosity beneath.

“…I’m used to it.”

Li Ming leaned back, thoughtful. “You don’t have to be.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Simple. Dangerous. True.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain filled the space between them, heavy and relentless.

Then Li Ming’s hand brushed his — accidental, perhaps — their fingers meeting over the chipped cup. Zhao Rui froze, instinct screaming, memories flickering of laws, of whispered rumors, of punishments for men who loved men.

But Li Ming didn’t pull away. He only looked at him — steady, unwavering, eyes dark with something that might have been defiance.

The lamp sputtered once, throwing their shadows against the wall — two silhouettes leaning close in the golden light, like a secret the night itself swore to keep.

Zhao Rui’s pulse stuttered.

He thought of the apocalypse — of fire, death, and endings. And then of this world, fragile, imperfect, but alive.

He had survived destruction once.

Maybe he could learn to survive love too.

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