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Rain in this town always carried a faint scent of rust — from the iron gates, the machinery, the railway that stretched beyond the hills. Zhao Rui used to hate that smell. It reminded him of blood, of weapons, of the tang that lingered in the air after a firefight.
Now, it meant Li Ming had passed by.
After that night under the rain, something changed — subtly, quietly, but enough that Zhao Rui felt it with every heartbeat.
Li Ming came by often, under excuses so clumsy they were almost charming.
“I was nearby.”
“The soup canteen ran out of salt, thought you might have some.”
“You still need someone to fix that leaking window, right?”
He would appear in the evenings, carrying the day’s dust and warmth with him. Zhao Rui never said no.
They would share tea, sometimes leftover buns, sometimes silence.
Theirs wasn’t the kind of silence that suffocates. It was heavy but gentle, filled with the sound of breath, the clink of porcelain, and the quiet knowledge that something fragile and dangerous was being built between them.
Zhao Rui found himself learning Li Ming’s rhythms — the way he rubbed his neck when thinking, the soft hum he made when fixing something, the half-laugh that came from the back of his throat when amused.
He also learned Li Ming’s loneliness.
It showed when his laughter faded too quickly, or when he stared too long at the empty street outside before saying, “I should go.”
One night, Zhao Rui asked — without looking up from the teapot —
“You live alone too?”
Li Ming’s hands stilled. Then he chuckled softly.
“Yeah. I used to have a roommate, but he got transferred north.”
He hesitated, then added, “People say a man my age should marry soon. My mother keeps sending me letters about ‘good matches.’”
Zhao Rui said nothing, but his fingers tightened slightly on the teacup.
Li Ming noticed. His eyes flickered — curious, maybe testing.
“Do you think it’s strange?” he asked, tone deliberately light. “That I’m not in a hurry?”
Zhao Rui met his gaze evenly. “I think everyone has their reasons.”
Li Ming smiled faintly. “And what about you?”
“…My reasons are complicated.”
That earned him a quiet laugh. “You’re always complicated.”
At night, Zhao Rui sometimes dreamed of the apocalypse again.
He’d wake up gasping, muscles tensed for a fight that wasn’t coming, the scent of gunpowder still clinging to his imagination. The world here was too soft, too unguarded — and he, too sharp for it.
Once, he woke to find Li Ming sitting by the door.
It was past midnight. The man must have come by after his shift — worried, perhaps, when Zhao Rui hadn’t shown up at the factory gate as usual.
“You were shouting,” Li Ming said quietly. “In your sleep.”
Zhao Rui wiped sweat from his brow. “Bad dream.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
A long silence followed. Then Li Ming got up, fetched a cloth, and handed it to him. “Then forget it. It’s over now.”
His tone was simple, matter-of-fact — but in those four words lay something deeper.
Zhao Rui looked at him, at the faint circles under his eyes, at the quiet steadiness that made his chest ache. In the apocalypse, no one ever said it’s over. Things just ended.
He didn’t realize he’d reached out until his fingers brushed Li Ming’s wrist — a small, instinctive gesture, seeking warmth.
Li Ming froze. The air shifted.
Neither spoke. The clock ticked somewhere in the dark. Rain tapped against the window again, softer this time, like a secret shared between walls.
It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even an embrace. But the silence between them felt like the edge of one.
Life in small towns always traveled on tongues faster than feet.
By early summer, whispers had begun.
“The new guy from the depot spends a lot of time with Li Ming.”
“He doesn’t seem to have any family.”
“They’re awfully close, aren’t they?”
They never said it outright. They didn’t have to.
The words were enough to send a cold, crawling awareness down Zhao Rui’s spine.
He’d seen what suspicion could do — even back in his original time, even before the end. Here, it wasn’t monsters he had to fear, but neighbors, coworkers, the wrong pair of eyes.
That evening, he confronted Li Ming outside the noodle shop.
“People are talking.”
Li Ming raised a brow. “Let them.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not safe.”
Li Ming’s voice softened. “Zhao Rui, this isn’t your world. You act like someone’s hunting you all the time.”
“They might, one day.”
Li Ming looked at him for a long while, then sighed. “You’re scared.”
Zhao Rui’s throat tightened. He hated that word. Fear was something he thought he’d killed long ago, somewhere between the ruined cities and the endless fights for survival.
“I’m cautious,” he said.
Li Ming stepped closer. “No, you’re scared — of being seen, of being known. You keep running even when no one’s chasing you.”
Zhao Rui’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what I’ve seen.”
“Then tell me.”
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t tell him about dying, about waking up decades in the past, about the way his hands still remembered the weight of a rifle.
So he said nothing.
Li Ming exhaled through his nose, frustrated but gentle. “Alright. Don’t tell me. But don’t expect me to pretend you’re invisible.”
He turned to leave, then stopped. “If being near me puts you in danger, say so. I’ll go.”
The words hung in the air like a test.
Zhao Rui didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.
But when he returned home that night, the silence felt unbearable — not the peaceful kind he’d once craved, but the hollow kind that echoed.
He realized then that in this world, his greatest fear wasn’t dying again.
It was losing someone while still alive.
Weeks passed before Li Ming came by again.
When he did, it was late afternoon. He carried a small box wrapped in brown paper.
“Peace offering,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
Zhao Rui unwrapped it carefully — inside was an old, second-hand camera. A Seagull 4A. The kind used by studio photographers and field journalists.
“You like quiet things,” Li Ming said. “So I thought you might like capturing them.”
Zhao Rui looked up, startled. “Where did you get this?”
“Traded for it. One of the workers had it lying around. Doesn’t work too well, but…” He shrugged. “I thought of you.”
That last sentence lodged somewhere deep in Zhao Rui’s chest.
He didn’t know what to say. Gratitude felt too small. So he lifted the camera and aimed it at Li Ming instead.
“Hold still.”
Li Ming laughed, half embarrassed, half flattered. “You’re serious?”
“Always.”
He clicked the shutter. The sound was crisp, final. A small piece of eternity captured in a frame.
Later, Zhao Rui developed the photo in secret, using the chemicals he’d kept in his storage space — a luxury from the apocalypse that had no place here.
The image that emerged made his throat tighten: Li Ming leaning against the doorframe, sunlight slicing across his face, eyes half smiling at something unseen.
It looked like a memory from a life that was never supposed to exist.
Zhao Rui kept the photograph hidden under the floorboard.
Every now and then, when the loneliness grew too loud, he would take it out — not to look at it, but just to know it was there.
Proof that something real had happened.
By early autumn, the rumors had cooled, replaced by new gossip about the mayor’s son and a stolen bicycle. Still, caution lingered like smoke.
Zhao Rui had started to think it was enough — these quiet evenings, the rare touches, the silent understanding. He didn’t need more.
Until Li Ming came one night and said,
“I’m being transferred.”
Zhao Rui blinked. “What?”
“The factory’s opening a new branch up north. They need engineers. It’s a promotion.”
He tried to smile, to sound happy. “That’s good news.”
Li Ming looked at him — really looked. “Is it?”
Zhao Rui swallowed hard. “It’s safer.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence. The lamplight trembled between them.
“Zhao Rui,” Li Ming said quietly, “do you want me to go?”
It should have been simple. Yes. Go. Be safe. Forget this dangerous thing between us.
But Zhao Rui’s mouth wouldn’t move.
Li Ming stepped closer, the faint smell of oil and rain clinging to him. “If you don’t stop me now, I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Zhao Rui’s chest rose and fell. His fingers trembled slightly at his sides.
“You should go,” he whispered.
Li Ming nodded slowly. “Then I will.”
He turned, walked to the door, and stopped once more. “But tell me something, Zhao Rui.”
“What?”
“Back then — when I came to your house that rainy night — if I had kissed you… would you have let me?”
Zhao Rui’s breath caught.
Li Ming smiled faintly, almost sadly. “Thought so.”
And then he was gone.
That night, Zhao Rui found himself sitting on the floor with the photograph in his hands.
The paper had creased at the corners, edges soft from being handled too often.
He looked at it for a long time, at the curve of Li Ming’s smile frozen in silver-gray. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket, stood, and stepped into the cold.
He walked across the quiet town until he reached the railway.
A faint whistle sounded in the distance — the train that would take Li Ming north.
He could see the lamps of the station, glowing faintly through the fog.
For a long while, Zhao Rui just stood there, his hand over his chest where the photograph rested.
Then he exhaled. And started walking.
Toward the station.
Toward him.
Toward the first decision he’d made for himself since dying.
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