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Monday, September 1st
It was Monday—specifically, five o’clock on a Monday—which meant it was time for the first of four calls he’d make this week. But first came the schedule. The schedule mattered. It had to be done right.
He was very particular about it—had been for nearly two years now. Shang Qinghua couldn’t just pick up the phone, dial Shen Yuan, let it ring into voicemail, and spill his thoughts. That wasn’t how it worked. That wasn’t how his brain worked.
First, he washed his hands. Warm water, two pumps of soap, fingers pressed together just right until the lather felt even between each knuckle. There wasn’t a reason, not a real one, but it felt wrong to start without it. Then he washed his face—twice—and brushed his teeth. Again, unnecessary. He’d do those before bed anyway, but the ritual wasn’t about logic. It was about order.
Third, he made sure the bedroom door was locked. He’d already done it five minutes ago, but what if the lock hadn’t caught properly the first time? What if someone came in mid-call? So he checked again, pressed his hand flat against the cool metal until it clicked.
Fourth, he washed his hands again. Fifth, he lit a candle—lavender, the scent that calmed him best—and turned off the overhead light. Candles always set the mood. Sixth and last, he double-checked the lock one more time. Better safe than sorry, right? That’s what he told himself, whispering it aloud like a mantra as he finally sat down.
Now, seated in his usual spot—a chair placed neatly beside his nightstand—he stared at the small flame flickering beside his old, modified GPO 746 rotary telephone. The beige plastic casing had yellowed with time, its coiled cord slightly frayed where it bent too often. Shen Yuan had bought matching ones years ago, back when they’d talk late into the night about everything and nothing.
Shang Qinghua used to think it was a stupid gift. Sentimental. Pointless. He’d teased Shen Yuan endlessly about being an old soul. But now… now he wasn’t sure how he’d survive without it.
He dialed the number carefully, finger sliding through each hole with practiced precision. He didn’t even need to look—it was muscle memory. The soft whir of the rotary clicking back into place was a comfort, a rhythm he’d memorized like breathing.
The ring echoed in his ear once… twice… thrice. His knee bounced beneath the desk. Four… five… and then the click of voicemail.
A full minute. He had a full minute to talk.
He smiled faintly, lips trembling as he exhaled into the receiver. “Hey, Shen Yuan… it’s me again.” His voice came out softer than he meant, slightly wavering. “Uh… it’s Monday, obviously. Five-oh-something. You know that already though, huh? I always call around the same time.” He let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like him—too rehearsed, too brittle. “You probably get tired of these.”
He paused, shifting in his seat. His fingers brushed the candle holder, just to feel the smooth ceramic. “Work was… okay today. I mean, as okay as it can be when you’re still two reports behind and your boss is—well—him.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “You remember Mobei-jun, right? Of course you do. You used to call him ‘the walking frostbite’ back in college. Well, uh, today he didn’t scowl at me. Not once.”
Shang Qinghua hesitated, his thumb rubbing against the smooth plastic of the receiver. “He… actually said ‘good job.’ Can you believe that? A full sentence. Directed at me. Without an insult at the end. Miraculous.” His tone softened, the humor giving way to something smaller. “It made me weirdly happy, actually. I even stayed a little longer to help him close up. Not that he asked, but… I don’t know. It felt nice being useful.”
The clock ticked quietly in the background. The flame beside him wavered, small but steady.
He could feel the words bubbling up, the ones he wasn’t supposed to say—the ones that turned in his mind all day until he could release them here, into the static, into someone’s listening ear, even if that someone never picked up.
“I thought about you a lot today,” he admitted, voice almost a whisper. “More than usual, I think. I was walking past the copy room and smelled that awful coffee you used to drink. You know, the cheap instant kind? The one that tasted like burnt dirt? Yeah, that one. It reminded me of how you’d bring me a cup every morning even though you knew I hated it.”
He let out another little laugh, this one quieter, more genuine. “You were so proud of being a ‘coffee person.’ I miss that. I miss… hearing your voice. You’d probably make fun of me for saying that, huh?”
The phone stayed silent, humming faintly against his ear.
He closed his eyes. “Anyway. I’m okay. I promise. I even remembered to eat lunch today. You’d be proud.” His fingers tightened on the receiver. “I still have that old hoodie of yours, too. It’s in the closet. Smells like dust now. Guess that’s what happens when things sit too long.”
A beat. Then another.
“I hope you’re doing okay,” he whispered. “Wherever you are.”
The voicemail tone cut him off with a long beep, signaling the end of his time. He stayed there for a moment longer, listening to the quiet hum on the line before setting the receiver gently back in its cradle.
His hands felt sticky with candle wax and sweat. He looked down at his palms, flexing his fingers once before reaching for the lighter again.
He had to blow the candle out. Then relight it. Then blow it out again.
Just once more—just to make sure.
Thursday, September 18th
Shang Qinghua might as well have dropped dead right where he stood. He’d been on edge all day—skin crawling, heart doing little panic-taps against his ribs. There was this unshakable certainty gnawing at him that something awful was going to happen.
Because of that, he hadn’t dared step outside. Every instinct screamed that if he left the house, the world would end—literally end—and, as always, Shang Qinghua preferred looking foolish over being sorry.
So he’d spent the entire day performing tiny rituals. The kind of meaningless little things he usually did without thinking—but today, they all felt like the difference between life and death. When he washed dishes, he scrubbed counterclockwise until his wrists ached. When he shut down any device, he made sure to turn off the WiFi first, like it would anger the heavens otherwise. Every action had to be just right. His brain framed them as vital measures against disaster, and before he knew it, five o’clock had crept up on him.
He tried to follow his ritual schedule to a T, but it all came out sloppy. When he washed his face, he rushed the last rinse. He almost forgot to check the door lock after the fifth step—almost. Crazy, right? Thankfully, his brain wasn’t about to let him get away with that.
Now he sat by the candle and the telephone, eyes unfocused, staring somewhere beyond the windowpane.
Shen Yuan never picked up—never had—and if Shang Qinghua were being honest, he liked it that way. Talking to the silence made it easier to say anything he wanted without feeling judged. But today… today he had this awful feeling that he’d start talking and, out of nowhere, Shen Yuan would actually answer—just to curse him out for being such a pest.
What if Shen Yuan sued him for harassment? It had to be annoying, getting called every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday at exactly 5 p.m. by some washed-up loser you’d already cut off. Did Shen Yuan even still have the phone? For all Shang Qinghua knew, he’d chucked it into a ditch somewhere just to let raccoons and stray cats deal with the incessant ringing.
Shang Qinghua exhaled shakily. Enough stalling. He had to call—he always had to call. His hands trembled as he pressed each number, slower than usual, ignoring the tears sliding down his cheeks and pooling against the number pad.
He pressed the receiver to his ear and waited. The rings were slower tonight—or maybe it always felt that way. The candle beside him flickered against the windowpane, and for a moment it looked like his reflection was someone else’s face staring back. The third ring. Then the fourth. Then the dull click of the machine accepting what was inevitable.
“Hey… Shen Yuan.” His voice came out too thin, too small. He cleared his throat, trying again, quieter this time. “It’s… it’s me. You probably knew that. I, uh… I almost didn’t call today. Isn’t that funny? Two years of doing this and I almost broke the streak. I thought maybe you’d like that.”
He gave a short laugh, though it caught in his throat and came out more like a cough. “I didn’t leave the house today. Not even once. It just… didn’t feel safe. Like something terrible was waiting for me if I stepped outside. Stupid, right? I know you’d roll your eyes at that.”
The sound of the candle sputtering filled the silence between his words. “You used to say I worried too much about things that didn’t exist. I think you said, uh—‘you can’t prevent a car crash by washing your hands, Qinghua.’ Remember that? But it worked, didn’t it? I’m still here. Still safe.”
He adjusted his grip on the receiver, knuckles white. “Work didn’t call today. Guess Mobei-jun’s too busy being the world’s coldest human being to notice if I died or something.” He snorted softly. “Wouldn’t that be something? Me, gone, and him still sitting behind that desk like nothing happened.”
A pause. The air hummed faintly.
“I keep thinking about the day we bought these phones. How you said they’d make us look like two old married people. I told you it was stupid, but—” His voice wavered. “I never got rid of mine. Can’t. It’s the only thing that still sounds like you.”
His hand was trembling now, the cord brushing against his wrist with every small movement. “I don’t even know what I’m calling for anymore. It’s not like you’re going to answer. You never do. I think—” he stopped to breathe, eyes flicking to the candle flame—“I think maybe I don’t want you to. Because if you picked up, I’d have to stop pretending you’re still here.”
He laughed softly, breath hitching halfway through. “You’d hate hearing me like this. You’d say, ‘God. Shang Qinghua, you’re pathetic.’ and I’d laugh and tell you you’re not wrong.”
He wiped at his face with his sleeve. “I just wanted to say—today felt different. I woke up and couldn’t remember if I locked the door last night. I checked it four times. Maybe five. I lost count. And then I thought, if I check one more time, maybe tomorrow will be okay. Maybe I’ll finally feel safe again. But I didn’t. I just felt… tired.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Shen Yuan. For calling so much. For being—me. I just—”
The beep of the voicemail cut him off.
Shang Qinghua froze, mouth still open mid-sentence. The empty line hummed against his ear, soft and final. He stared at the candle, its small flame bending sideways in a faint draft. He’d never gone over a minute before. Not once.
He let the receiver drop slowly into its cradle. The silence afterward felt enormous, like the room was holding its breath.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring back. It never did.
September, Saturday 27th
Today had been good for Shang Qinghua—shockingly, unbelievably good. For once, he didn’t rush straight home after work like some wind-up doll retracing its steps. Instead, he turned left instead of right, boarded the wrong bus on purpose, and ended up at a park he hadn’t visited since his twenties.
He didn’t really go anywhere anymore. Grocery store, work, home—that was his holy trinity of destinations. He didn’t have friends to meet or hobbies to justify going outside. His only “friend” was a man he hadn’t actually spoken to in three years and some change, a number that felt both distant and embarrassingly fresh. Still, today… today, the park felt like the right kind of rebellion.
The air was warm and a little damp. He sat on a worn bench under a flickering streetlamp, unwrapping a convenience store sandwich like it was a luxury meal. The bread was dry, the ham too salty, but it didn’t matter. For a fleeting moment, chewing and staring off into space felt like paradise.
His mind, usually a messy spool of noise and fear, went still. He thought about nothing—absolutely nothing—and it was bliss. No phantom guilt. No intrusive “what-ifs.” Just the gentle rustle of trees and the dull hum of the city bleeding into dusk. For once, he wasn’t Shang Qinghua the anxious work drone, or Shang Qinghua the pathetic ex-friend who couldn’t let go. He was just… there.
Even before Shen Yuan left his life, that awful weight had always been there. It was the kind of heaviness that stuck behind your ribs, souring everything sweet. But here, sitting beneath the bruised-purple sky, that weight had slipped away entirely.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. The sandwich was long gone, the wrapper balled up in his pocket. The sun had quietly swapped places with the moon, and the air carried that gentle, damp chill of approaching night. But he didn’t feel cold. He didn’t even feel real. He floated somewhere outside himself—content, invisible, unburdened.
It wasn’t until someone tapped his shoulder that he remembered he had a body at all. Park security, looking sheepish, told him they were closing for the night. Shang Qinghua blinked, disoriented, before fumbling for his phone. The screen’s glow nearly blinded him.
9:03 PM.
And then the realization hit him like a live wire to the chest.
It’s nine on a call day.
Nine o’clock. On a call day.
Nine o’clock on a call day.
Shang Qinghua didn’t even remember standing up—only that his legs were moving, his heart ricocheting off his ribs as he ran. He wasn’t sure what possessed him, only that if he didn’t get home now, something irreversible would happen. His lungs burned, and by the time he reached his apartment building, he could barely breathe.
He shoved open the door, nearly tripping over his shoes, and then—he froze.
There was a sound.
From the bedroom.
Faint, muffled, but unmistakable.
Ringing.
For a long second, he thought he’d imagined it. That couldn’t be right. The phone hadn’t rung in years. It was always him calling, always him waiting for a voice that never came.
If it was ringing… that meant Shen Yuan was calling him.
But Shen Yuan would never—would he?
Shang Qinghua’s throat tightened. He took a hesitant step toward the bedroom, then another. The air felt thick, almost solid, pressing down on him with every breath.
The ringing stopped.
Silence flooded in—heavy, wrong, endless.
He stood there, trembling, one hand still raised mid-step, staring into the darkness of the room that suddenly felt like it was staring back.
Something was waiting for him.
And he didn’t know if it was good, bad, or something far worse.
Shang Qinghua stepped into the bedroom cautiously, each footfall muted against the carpet. His hand lingered on the doorknob for a brief moment, almost expecting—hoping—to see something, anything, that would explain the ringing. But the room was empty. Silent. Nothing. No ringing. No Shen Yuan. Not even the hum of a forgotten device.
He exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders unraveling only slightly. His fingers traced the edge of the desk, tapping lightly as though to ground himself, before he walked toward his bathroom. The ritual had to be completed. It always had to be completed.
First, he washed his hands, slow and deliberate, counting each motion in his head to ensure perfection. The warm water shocked him at first, sending a shiver up his arms, but the rhythm soothed him.
Second, he washed his face, making sure each swipe of the cloth covered every inch. He lingered on the jawline, lingering just a little too long, pressing into the contours as if mapping himself back to reality. Third, he brushed his teeth, obsessively checking the brush for stray bristles and making certain not a single drop of toothpaste had fallen outside the sink.
Fourth, the door lock. He tested it twice before resting his palm against it, feeling the cool metal and turning the knob minutely just to be sure.
Fifth, the candle. He lit it carefully, the flame flickering as it reflected in his wide, watery eyes, a tiny anchor in the dark room. Sixth, one final lock check. Three twists, the metal clicking perfectly into place. Shang Qinghua nodded faintly to himself, satisfied, though a residual tremor still ran down his spine.
Finally, he approached the telephone. His fingers hovered over the dial pad, hesitant, almost reverent. The rotary was warm under his palm, comforting in its weight and antiquity. He exhaled slowly, glancing at the candle’s flame, then at the phone, as though the act of calling Shen Yuan required more courage than he possessed.
He dialed. Carefully. The line clicked, and the familiar ringing sounded in his ear. For a moment, the world narrowed to that sound—each ring a pulse in his chest, each pause an echo in his mind.
When it went to voicemail, Shang Qinghua’s lips quivered. He swallowed hard, but the words tumbled out in a rush of nervous energy, his voice soft, trembling, and hesitant.
“Hi… it’s me. I—I know it’s… it’s late. Or early? I don’t know… anyway, I just… I wanted to call. I didn’t miss it, today. I didn’t miss it and—oh… I feel… I don’t know… happy? Weirdly happy, I guess? I mean, it’s been a long time and I—I haven’t missed a call ever, not even once, so… I guess that feels like… like an accomplishment. Or maybe it’s just… I don’t know. A little insane, I guess. But… it feels good to talk, even if it’s just to myself, or to you, or… I don’t know. I just… wanted to hear the tone of your voicemail. That’s… that’s enough… for me.”
His voice cracked on the last word, a small sob hiding beneath it.
Shang Qinghua pressed the receiver against his cheek, closing his eyes and inhaling the faint warmth of the rotary. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself linger on that strange mix of happiness and unease, feeling both comforted and exposed at the same time.
His hands shook as he lifted the receiver, staring at it with wide, uncertain eyes. A laugh bubbled up—soft, broken, almost incredulous—and then he pressed his forehead to the phone.
“I… I guess that’s it, then,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I just… wanted to call. Just wanted to…”
He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, suspended in the quiet of the room, in the dim candlelight, in the hollow space of a voicemail that would never be returned.
Saturday, November 1st
Life had slipped out from under Shang Qinghua’s feet so quietly he almost didn’t notice. No sharp collapse, no dramatic breaking point—just a slow erosion of control until he woke up one morning and realized he could no longer steer his own body.
He wanted one thing—just one small, ordinary thing like standing up or eating—and his limbs refused, heavy and worthless as if stone.
It had been a full week now. Seven days and nights, and not once had he called Shen Yuan.
He couldn’t even bring himself to lift the receiver. Every day he avoided it felt like another hour borrowed from an apocalypse only he could feel coming. The world outside went on—traffic, weather, people eating lunch—but in his head the sky had cracked. Any second the sun might flare and swallow everything, and somehow he’d be responsible for it.
He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. Mostly, he lay in bed and watched the ceiling change shades from morning to night, feeling his body rot by degrees. Not literally, of course, but there was a sourness to his skin, a stiffness to his joints, as though decay had started without permission.
He didn’t feel real. And not the sort of unreal he’d felt before, standing in the park in late fall when the air smelled like rain and he could almost pretend he was floating. This was different. This was heavy, not weightless—an unreality so dense it pressed against his ribs.
Sometimes the thoughts came in flashes, bright and sharp as lightning: you’d be better off ending it, better off cutting the waiting short before the world burns you first. He imagined the sun swelling larger and larger until the sky split open and erased everything—every person, every word he’d spoken, every voicemail he’d left unanswered. It should have been terrifying. Instead it felt like inevitability.
But still he didn’t move. His muscles had forgotten how. He would think “sit up” and nothing would happen. He would think “stand” and remain flat against the mattress, pinned by an invisible weight.
The candle beside his bed was unlit, a stub of lavender wax tilted in its holder. He stared at it for hours, watching the wick curl like a question mark. Sometimes his eyes drifted to the telephone, sitting patiently on the nightstand as if it had been waiting for him all week. Beige plastic, frayed cord, the faint ring of dust around the cradle where his fingers used to rest.
He wondered if anyone at work had noticed yet. His phone had died days ago; the screen was a black mirror now. Before it went dark, he thought he saw an email notification—a subject line he couldn’t bring himself to open. He was almost sure it had been about termination. Permanent. The word sat heavy in his chest like a swallowed stone.
It didn’t matter. Not really. Jobs ended, routines ended, people ended. Everything was ending anyway. The sun would burst eventually. The earth would crack. Maybe soon. Maybe tomorrow.
He closed his eyes and listened to the faint hum of the house around him—the pipes, the walls settling, the refrigerator cycling on and off. Sounds of a world that still worked. Sounds he could no longer touch.
The candle stayed cold. The telephone stayed silent.
And Shang Qinghua lay there, waiting for something—anything—to move first.
Wednesday, November 19th
He’d gotten back into the bounce of everything—or at least the closest approximation of it.
Days that used to blur together in gray haze now had flickers of color. He’d even started doing things old him would never have thought of. He found himself chatting with Mobei Jun in the break room about trivial things—weather, the incompetence of the interns, the latest memo from corporate. Shang Qinghua spoke casually, even cracked a joke. A joke. The man who could barely meet Mobei Jun’s eyes had leaned against the counter, smiling faintly like some normal person, and for a second, Mobei Jun had actually looked taken aback, like he didn’t quite recognize him.
Oh, right—on that note, Shang Qinghua hadn’t been fired! Against all odds, despite the sick days and the silent spirals, he still had a job. The company had been oddly lenient about how many days he’d taken off. Perhaps it was because he was Mobei Jun’s secretary, and secretaries were hard to replace. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Regardless, it felt like a small miracle.
Shang Qinghua clung to these small miracles. Each one felt like a bead on a string he was threading before it snapped. He wanted to get as much done as possible before his last day came—before his throat filled with bitter pills and he dropped to the floor, just barely escaping the day the sun itself might collapse under its own weight. He didn’t think of it as melodrama anymore. It was a plan. A quiet plan. A plan that gave him peace.
In preparation, he did the small things, the ordinary things. He talked to Mobei Jun. He even scored his personal number. Not that it mattered—Shang Qinghua didn’t think he’d ever use it—but still, having it felt like proof of some strange normalcy. He texted his parents a good morning message for the first time in months. They replied with a cautious “love you” and a smiling emoji. It felt nice, like someone had cracked a window in a room he’d been suffocating in.
He tidied his apartment, cleaning each surface with the kind of precision only he understood. He lined the books on his shelf by height, wiped down the corners of the window sills, folded his towels until the edges met perfectly. It wasn’t just cleaning. It was an exorcism of chaos. It was creating a world where everything was exactly as it should be. And it brought him joy—strange, quiet joy.
He’d always imagined that if he ever felt close to death, he’d be frantic, desperate to cling to the world. Instead, he felt calm. Getting to taste the sweetness of life before dying was all Shang Qinghua had ever really wanted. He’d spent so much of his life alone, so fearful of how his last day would come—whether it would be in some sterile hospital room, or on a forgotten sidewalk. But now? Now he was in control. He could decide his last day and how it ended. Control. That was all Shang Qinghua had ever wanted. And now he had it. He would die without regrets.
Well… almost.
There was one last thing he had to do. His final ritual. The last and final call to Shen Yuan.
He sat down at the small wooden desk beside his bed. The candle was already lit, its flame small and steady, throwing a soft amber glow over the rotary telephone. His knees felt weak, but he lowered himself into the chair anyway, resting his trembling hands on the edge of the desk. The shadows flickered across the walls, breathing with the candlelight.
The clock ticked. Four fifty-nine. The sound was deafening in the quiet. He stared at the minute hand, watching it crawl forward, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.
This is it.
His fingers hovered over the phone, not yet touching the dial. They flexed and trembled slightly, as if the weight of what he was about to do pressed down on them. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, the scent of warm wax and faint dust filling his lungs.
Five o’clock. The second hand ticked forward.
It was time.
Shang Qinghua placed his hand on the receiver, his thumb grazing the smooth curve of the dial. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He stared at the numbers, knowing them by heart, yet suddenly unable to make them out clearly, his vision blurring at the edges.
He drew in one last steadying breath, exhaled slowly, and lifted the receiver to his ear.
His other hand poised itself over the dial.
One number at a time. One last time.
And then he began.
Shang Qinghua pressed the receiver harder to his ear, the faint static of the line a dull hum against his cheek. His thumb worried at the edge of the rotary phone, tracing small circles over the cool plastic. His voice trembled as it left him, soft but cracking at the edges.
“Hello… Shen Yuan.” He tried to laugh, but it came out thin and papery. “It’s funny—no, weird—how this might be the last time anyone ever hears my voice.” His throat bobbed. He stared down at the candle’s flickering flame, as if it might hold him steady. “Ha… bold of me to assume you even listen to these, huh?”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, and rubbed at the corner of his eye with his knuckle. “You’ve always been such a strong man. Always determined to make a point. Always… better at living than me.” His lips twitched upward into something like a smile, but it quickly faltered. “Anyways—today was good. Really good, actually.”
His free hand flattened over his thigh, fingers tapping a jittery rhythm. “I got Mobei Jun’s number. That was the highlight.” He gave a soft, breathless laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “Uhm… also cleaned my room today. Felt good. Cleanest it’s ever been. Like a hotel room before the guests come in.”
He stared at the floor now, eyes unfocused. “Texted my parents, too. First time in nearly a decade. Seven years of silence broken just like that…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Funny how that works.”
The candle popped softly, wax dribbling down its side. Shang Qinghua swallowed hard. “I’ll be gone soon, Shen Yuan. Even if you don’t care, even if you’ve moved on, I wanted you to know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the phone with both hands now as if it might slip away.
“Goodbye, Shen Yuan,” he murmured. His throat worked around the words. “I’ll… I’ll always cherish our friendship.” A pause, a tiny shudder of breath. “Sleep well.”
He stayed there, listening to the static on the other end like it was a heartbeat, before finally letting the receiver slip from his fingers.
.
.
.
Tuesday, January 1st
Shen Yuan had finally discovered where Luo Binghe had hidden his stupid rotary phone. It had taken him nearly three months—three long months of opening drawers, pulling apart closets, even checking the ceiling panels like a paranoid detective. He wasn’t sure what game Luo Binghe was playing, but hiding it felt petty, even for him.
It wasn’t like Shen Yuan had broken that big of a rule. He was allowed to listen to Shang Qinghua’s voicemails whenever he wanted. That was their one unspoken agreement—well, his and the empty line’s. He could listen, but he could never reply. A rule Luo Binghe had made him swear to follow.
So what if he’d panicked one night and called back? So what if his hands had been shaking and his voice barely held together? He was human, damn it. Humans slipped up. Humans made mistakes.
Hiding the phone for three months? That was cruel.
But tonight, with Luo Binghe off on some godforsaken business trip—Shen Yuan didn’t even carewhere—he finally had his chance.
He sat down cross-legged on the living room rug, the heavy beige phone in front of him like some relic of penance. His thumb hovered over the dial.
He exhaled, slow and shaky. The apartment was quiet.
Finally, finally, he could catch up on what he’d missed.
Except—
The phone rang.
He froze.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
It didn’t ring on Tuesdays. Shang Qinghua’s voicemails came at five sharp, always on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Every week, without fail. Like clockwork. Like ritual.
He glanced at the wall clock. 2:47 PM.
A strange, uneasy throb rose in his chest.
Something’s wrong.
The phone rang again—sharper, louder, impatient this time. His fingers twitched. He knew he shouldn’t answer. He’d promised not to. He’d promised to just listen, never interfere.
But that sense—that awful, sinking sense—wouldn’t leave his stomach.
He reached for the receiver.
“Just once,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Just this once.”
The line clicked as he lifted it, the soft hum of static filling his ear.
He took a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“…Hello?” he said, voice trembling.
And then—
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered, faint and thin through the static.
Shen Yuan froze.
That wasn’t Shang Qinghua.
“Hello?” he said again, uncertain, his knuckles whitening around the receiver.
There was a pause, then the woman spoke once more, carefully, as if afraid the sound itself might shatter her. “Ah… hello. Is this Shen Yuan?”
He blinked. “Yeah… yeah, it’s me.” His voice came out quieter than he expected. “Who’s this?”
The woman’s breath hitched through the line. “My name is Lin Meilan. I’m… I’m Shang Qinghua’s mother.”
Every muscle in Shen Yuan’s body went stiff. For a heartbeat, he didn’t even breathe. His grip faltered, the heavy phone cord brushing against his knee. “His… his mother?” he repeated, his voice barely holding itself together.
“Yes.” A long, weighted silence followed. When she spoke again, her words carried the kind of exhaustion that seeps into the bones. “I— I’m so sorry to call you like this, but… my son passed away around three months ago.”
Shen Yuan’s heart stopped.
She continued before he could speak, as if afraid he’d hang up or disbelieve her. “They… found him in his apartment. The doctors said it was… peaceful, at least. He didn’t suffer long.” Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and the sound of a quiet sob pressed through the static. “I was told your number was on a list he… he left. I think he wanted you to know.”
The room tilted. Shen Yuan clutched the cord like it might keep him upright. “No,” he rasped. “No, that’s not— that’s not possible. I just— I just heard him. He called me. He always calls me.”
“I know,” she whispered, tears audible in the tremor of her breath. “That’s actually why I’m calling.”
Shen Yuan swallowed hard, his throat raw. “What do you mean?”
“The police found a recording— his last voicemail.” She hesitated. “He sent it to your line, but it never transmitted. The service company said it’s still stuck in the system. I’ve been trying to reach someone who could help me recover it. I thought maybe… maybe you’d already received it. It’s the last thing he said before he…” She trailed off.
Before he died.
The words didn’t need to be spoken; they hung there, merciless.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The candle on Shen Yuan’s desk had burned itself out weeks ago, but somehow, the room still felt dimmer.
“I just want to hear his voice one last time,” Mrs. Shang whispered. “That’s all a mother can ask for, isn’t it?”
Shen Yuan tried to answer, but nothing came out. His throat closed.
“His coworkers said he talked about you often, you know,” she said, voice breaking into quiet sobs. “Said you were the only person who ever understood him. The only one he could talk to.”
Something inside him shattered. His hands trembled violently as he pressed the receiver harder against his ear, as if he could will her words away. “Please,” he managed to choke out, “please stop.”
But she didn’t. Her grief poured through the line in fragments, in apologies, in the helpless murmuring of someone trying to hold together a world already collapsed.
“His funeral is this Saturday,” she whispered. “If… if you’d like to come, you’re welcome.”
The line fell silent.
Then came the faint click of her hanging up.
Shen Yuan sat there for a second, his ears ringing, his pulse a dull roar. The phone was still pressed to his cheek when the reality finally sank in. His breath hitched, broke, and then —
The receiver slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sharp clack.
He doubled over, chest shaking, tears spilling hot and fast down his face. The rotary phone swung limply on its cord beside him, the faint static whispering through the speaker — the only thing left of a voice he’d never get to hear again.