The walls were bare except for an old clock that no longer worked and a series of mismatched shelves holding dusty and disheveled liquor bottles of every size. Men and women sat slumped at tables, their bodies hunched protectively over their drinks.
I spotted Wei Feng and Yuan Yun, tucked away in the far corner of the room. Yuan Yun had his feet on the table, leaning back with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Wei Feng sat uncomfortably, his posture rigid as he swirled a glass of water.
"You're late," Wei Feng remarked without looking up, carrying a note of unmistakable disapproval he reserved for moments like these.
"Wasn't aware we were on a schedule," I smiled, sliding into my seat.
Yuan Yun snorted, exhaling a puff of smoke into my face. "Don't mind him. He's probably been here since he got punched out of work, memorizing the factory manual or something."
Wei Feng's jaw tightened, gripping the glass a little too hard. "Some of us actually care about keeping our jobs."
"And some of us know how to relax." Yuan Yun smirked, but his eyes betrayed no humor.
Wei Feng ignored him, his eyes fixed on the condensation forming on his glass.
The three of us had worked in the same textile factory, a crumbling building of the pre-war days that served as a lifeline for the lucky men who could find work. The labor was monotonous, backbreaking, and paid just enough to keep us coming back. Wei Feng and I still worked there, and Yuan Yun had decided to live off his father's hefty savings.
The bartender arrived with my drink, a modest whisky, and set it down with a curt nod. I took a sip, savoring the warmth that spread throughout my chest.
You hear about Ha Zhu from the third shift?" Yuan Yun asked, his tone light.
"What about him?" Wei Feng asked abruptly, sitting up straighter.
"Caught stealing from a warehouse," Yuan Yun replied, his smile widening. "Idiot thought he could get away with it. Guess he's out of a job now."
"Out of a job?" Wei Feng scoffed, "He should be lucky he's not in prison."
I winced, swallowing the guilt in my throat.
Ha Zhu was a desperate man, applying to jobs left and right to try to pay for his immense debt he gained from a foolish gambling streak in his youth. He was notorious for his obsessive attempts to sleep with the girls at his workplace – specifically, the sewing mill girls. The last time I saw him was at the bar tables, slumped over in defeat as his hands clutched various rejection letters.
The names of the bosses peeked through his fingertips, and I couldn't help but feel a sharp wave of pity for him. Zhou, Yung, Kim, Shue, Sun, Chen, and Shi, all the heads of the city's biggest sewing mills, somehow managed to reject him all in the span of a month.
I was the unfortunate witness in watching him drown his sorrows in beer, only to end up vomiting on the side of a road in a truly disgraceful manner.
It wasn't hard to imagine why he may have been desperate enough to steal.
Yuan Yun leaned back. "Serves him right. Only fools gamble what they can't lose."
"Not everyone has your luxury of carelessness," I suddenly snapped, my voice low but firm. "Some people don't get to decide between survival and morality."
Yuan Yun raised an eyebrow. "Relax, Taihan. Maybe Ha Zhu was just trying to make it easier for himself. Or maybe he was trying to bribe one of his girls with some extra fabric. Ever think of that?"
I glanced at Wei Feng, hoping for him to come to my defense, but his gaze was locked across the bar. I turned behind me, trying to see what he had been looking at.
And that's when I saw her.
It was clear she didn't belong. Couldn't belong, in a place as broken and banal as this. In our world blackened with the ash of coal, her figure was draped by the warm glow of the candlelight giving her an angelic glow. Her dark hair, streaked with a few strands of golden blonde, shimmered as she shifted in her seat. There was a quiet innocence to her, honey brown eyes glimmering against long, wispy lashes, and the gentle slope of her nose and softness of her cheeks. The strangest resemblance to a deer was brought to my eyes.
I felt a strange pull, my chest tightening as I stared.
"Taihan?" Yuan Yun's voice snapped me back to reality.
"What?"
"You're staring. Don't."
"Don't what?" I feigned innocence, glancing towards Wang to see if he was still looking. He wasn't, his attention back on his drink.
Yuan Yun leaned forward, following my gaze. His eyes lit up as he spotted her. "Ah, I see," a sly grin spread across his face. "You noticed Isabelle."
"Isabelle?" I echoed, the name unfamiliar yet somehow fitting.
"Yes," Yuan Yun leaned back with a knowing nod. "She's new in town. Moved in last week from Philadelphia."
"Philadelphia?" I echoed. "She's from America? Why would she come to a dump like this?"
Yuan Yun shrugged, ignoring me. "No clue. But let me tell you Taihan, don't even think about it. She's out of your league."
I stopped sipping from my drink to look at him incredulously. "That's not at all what I was thinking. I'm married, Yuan Yun."
"What? I'm just being honest. Women like that don't go for men like us." He flicked off ash from his cigarette. "But if you're feeling brave, go for it. Just don't be surprised when she starts laughing."
I sighed, turning away. "That woman could never compare to Qianqian. She's… alright, I suppose. I was just surprised to see someone like that here."
"Someone that attractive?" Yuan Yun teased, clasping my back.
I laughed despite myself. He had a strange way of making me do that. "I meant wealthy. I mean, look at her clothing."
Wei Feng nodded. "Silk and cashmere."
Yuan Yun sneered gratingly. "Of course you and Taihan can tell the difference between fabrics. Guess working as textile sorters for the last few years makes a difference."
"Shut up," Wei Feng muttered, his tone sharper than usual.
"Am I wrong?" Yi Shaan laughed.
Wei Feng shook his head but said nothing more.
I turned my attention back to my drink, though my thoughts stayed on her. Isabelle.
Wei Feng turned his attention to me, his voice lowered. "Don't get distracted, Taihan. You have enough troubles without chasing someone like her. She's just a person, no better, no worse than anyone else. Don't make her into something she's not."
I rolled my eyes once again. "I don't want her. At all."
Yuan Yun, for once, said nothing. The two eventually dissolved into their usual antics – some heated debate about whether or not Wei Feng had the guts – or the charm – to woo some factory girl they both seemed to find intriguing. One year We Feng's senior, she was, like Isabelle, a diamond in the rough. Hailing from the mystic lands of Germany in the far, far West, her blonde hair shone as beautifully as the gold that glittered in our dreams. Or at least, that's what Wei Feng claimed, spinning romanticized tales about her steady demeanor and quiet beauty.
They tried to engage me, but I was too tired – and too distracted, to care. I don't quite remember when they left, but when I finally stirred from my reverie, I was alone. I decided to sit for a few moments longer, rubbing my fingers against my temple in a futile attempt to nurse the dull ache seeping into my skull.
Ruminating in my thoughts, I barely noticed the soft, dainty clicks of heels on the wooden floorboards. I glanced up, almost absent mindedly, to see Isabelle, standing what must've been 3 feet away from me.
Her beauty was overwhelming, almost suffocating up close. Dressed in a luxurious black silk dress that hugged her waist, fine fur coat that framed her torso and neck, and fine, silver jewelry dripping off her neck, she seemed almost otherworldly.
She was looking directly at me, and if the slight bend of her eyebrows were anything to go by, she looked almost sheepish.
"Hey." she said, soft and deliberate, as if testing the waters. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with porcelain fingers.
"Hello," I responded, though my voice sounded hoarse.
She offered a small, almost bashful smile, her eyes flitting downwards before meeting mine again. "This is gonna sound like a really strange request…" Isabelle began, "but I heard your friends talking about how good you were at math."
"Did they?" I blurted out, before sensibly deciding to shut my mouth before I made more of a fool of myself. I berated myself for sounding so awkward, but Isabelle didn't seem to notice – or at least, she was kind enough not to let it show.
"Yes," she smiled, almost sheepishly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop of course…but they were discussing their taxes and mentioned you were always the one they turned to when they needed help solving… complicated things."
Understanding dawned upon me. Those two had a knack for teasing me about my brief stint of academic excellence, specifically with the entrance exams that once served as my ticket out of this downtrodden world. That was, before the war, of course. With the war, all my dreams of attending college vanished and burned before my eyes, leaving the ash-grey of cigarettes and factory smog as the only thing that remained.
"Well, I used to study a little when I was younger." I wasn't exactly keen on telling her the extent, so this seemed like a safe bet.
"Could I just ask a quick favor? It's not taxes, I promise," She teased, voice dropping to a whisper.
For some strange reason, I felt a smile tug at the corner of my lips. It was the first time in months I had felt anything close to amusement.
"That depends," I shot back – jokingly, of course, so she would know I wasn't actually reluctant. "What can I help you with?"
"I need some help with budgeting for some company," she admitted, "Numbers aren't exactly my strong suit." She ended with a self-deprecating laugh.
"What company?" I asked, already gesturing for her to hand the papers to me. She slid the files into my hand, her fingers brushing mine briefly. It was innocent and accidental, yet my heart lurched. She seemed so wealthy, so otherworldly, that I didn't want to taint her with my mere presence.
And yet, the slightest touch sent warmth through me.
"Carver," she waved her hand absently, unaware of the effect she had on me. "It's based in America. It's focused on technology and coding. They used to work with some artificial intelligence companies during your war."
Your war.
I brushed off the uneasy feeling. I had never realized that the war – what had ruined and devastated my life – had barely grazed others, others who were lucky enough, prosperous enough, to be born elsewhere.
I've never heard of Carver, but it seemed like Isabelle wasn't too offended when I gave an apologetic shake of my head. I scanned the documents she handed me, flipping through page after page. The numbers were simple, almost insultingly so, but I didn't mind.
When she handed me a pencil, a peaceful silence enveloped us as I crunched the numbers.
It was done in less than 10 minutes, and after I triple-checked my work to make sure it was done correctly, I handed it back to Isabelle.
"Thank you so much!" She gushed, a wide grin splitting her face, revealing perfect white teeth. "You just saved me."
Her praise was intoxicating, a balm for wounds I hadn't realized were still raw. I was quite pleased she appreciated my work so much.
"It's no problem, it's no big deal." I tried to wave it off with a brush of my hand, though the slight tremor in my voice did little to hide my pride.
"No, really. You're incredible…" Isabelle insisted, squinting slightly at the papers. "You must have been the top of your class."
I hesitated. The war had closed down our school, our library. But bringing that up here seemed out of place, almost foreign. Finally, I offered a half-truth, the words heavy on my tongue. "I studied for the entrance exams to go to some universities in the West." I reply halfheartedly, trying to gauge her reaction. "But… things didn't quite work out."
"That's still incredible," she said quickly, "Most people wouldn't even try"
"I got in." I corrected, realizing she thought I had been rejected. "I just couldn't go… having to take care of my family and all."
Speaking of it left something sour in my mouth, the same ache of your legs after chasing something for miles and miles on end, only to have it just brush past your fingertips. My parents weren't able – or willing – to even pay for the plane ticket, much less for even a semester of college.
I rarely told anyone. I don't know why I told her so easily.
"Really?" Some kind of awe filled her voice as her eyes widened, and somehow, she was still just as beautiful. "Isn't that really difficult? You must be a genius. You should be proud!"
Pride. It was a foreign concept to me. Logically, I knew it was stupid to find this kind of happiness, this confidence, from a mere stranger's compliment. But hearing her say it made me believe, if only for a moment, that I could be adequate – and not just adequate, but good.
"I just studied a lot." I laughed dryly, leaving out the part where I studied the questions that were given to me in advance the day before the exam. I had spent three months worth of some newspaper-boy job salary on acquiring the questions, after all. It paid to have underground connections. Not that it mattered in the end.
"You studied a lot." Isabelle laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. She gracefully tucked the papers back into her purse, before standing up and holding out her hand.
"Where are my manners? I'm Isabelle Cheng. It's so wonderful to meet you."
"Isabelle," I repeated, a note of wonder in my voice, although I had to pretend as if I didn't already know it. "I'm Taihan."
"Taihan. Well you can call me Bella. That's what all my friends call me." She said, "I have to get going now, but I'll catch you around."
I nodded dumbly, suddenly awestruck again by her beauty as she stood up promptly, leaving me to stew in silence at what just happened. It must have been at least twenty minutes before I got the senses to gather my own drinks and belongings, heading for the door myself.
The cold hair hit me like a slap, sharp and bracing. I pulled my coat closer around me, my breath forming pale clouds in the darkness.
The walk home was heavier than usual, as if the bar's dim glow and stale conversations clung to me like a second coat. The cracked road stretched before me, littered with trash and wavering streetlights.
I kept my hands in my pockets, playing with the loose threads of my fraying jacket. The whiskey had burned out of my system, leaving me freezing.
The streets were almost empty now, except for the occasional cat or shadow moving above. This part of town, with its leaning buildings and forgotten alleyways, had never pretended to be more than what it was.
When I reached the narrow staircase to my house, I hesitated for a moment before entering. The chipped wood banister gleamed faintly under the weak light of the bulb above the entrance. There was nothing waiting for me inside except the familiar arrangement of a life that felt increasingly like borrowed time.
Inside, the house was dim, lit by the lamp in the corner. The smell of damp wood mingled with something sweet – jasmine, I realized, although it seemed impossible given the season.
The dining table was the first thing I saw. It was impossibly neat, as always. Two placemats were perfectly arranged, one for me and one for my wife.
I stood in the doorway, watching as Qianqian shifted in her seat expectantly, her food untouched.
A bowl of rice sat at the end of the table, its tendrils of warmth spiraling upward like ghostly hands. Another bowl, amazingly, was filled with sweet potato soup. Sweet potatoes were a rare treat, a taste of warmth and sweetness that cut through the monotony of rice and pickled vegetables.
I pulled my chair out, shifting into my chair. Surprisingly, my voice was the one that broke the silence. "Did you get these from Mr. Sato today?"
Mr. Sato was our neighbor, a man who, though aging and frail, managed to eke out a living as a street vendor. He sometimes brought us leftovers, bits of fish or vegetables that hadn't been sold, food that would have otherwise gone to waste. It was a kindness we were grateful for, even if pride made it hard to accept.
"Yes," she replied, nodding towards the bowl of soup. "He stopped by earlier. He left some sweet potatoes by the door."
Qianqian's eyes flickered with a brief spark of interest, and for a moment, she looked like the woman she used to be, her face lit with the smallest trace of joy. It was in these small gestures, these unexpected kindnesses, that we found solace, however short it might be.
"Where have you been all night?" She said abruptly, placing her chopsticks down. "I thought you were coming home an hour ago.
"At work," I replied. The words came too quickly. "Lots of textiles to sort today at the factory."
It wasn't entirely a lie, I reasoned, trying to calm the guilt that was beginning to eat at my stomach again. The fabric sorting became drawn out for hours in the winter season, with everyone desperately trying to stave off the biting cold with coats and jackets from the factory.
"Your breath smells of liquor." Qianqian's voice was strained, as if she tried to be casual, failing miserably as the clear disapproval in her tone was clear.
I paused and groaned. "I went out briefly for a drink. Am I not allowed to take a break anymore?"
"Of course you are," she sighed, "But I wish you could spend that break here, at home."
"I come home every night for dinner," I retorted, no longer bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice. "Is that not enough?"
"It's just…" Qianqian starts, her voice losing the harshness it had before. In the dim glow of the petroleum lamps, she seems awfully small. "We haven't talked in so long." She gazes at me wistfully, and in a way, I knew exactly what she was referring to.
We had met years ago in the same underground schools, the scraggly groups of students and teachers who attempted to learn while bombshells shook the walls around us. She was the first woman I had ever pursued seriously, the first woman I had ever imagined a future with. In her arms, I found a sense of stability in the chaos revolving around us. I proposed to her after just a few months, knowing that in our world, nothing would ever be certain. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
She was my first love, and I was hers; we were horrifically awkward in our inexperience, and as the years flew by, we stumbled with our share of mistakes and arguments. Somehow, along the way, she went from the woman I once dedicated my future to, to the woman I would go days without speaking or seeing.
"I miss you," she said softly. "We used to talk all the time. About everything. I miss that."
There's a painful admittance in her words, and a sense of shame pangs in my gut. Nonetheless, a surge of frustration quickly overshadowed it.
"We talk at dinner," I say sharply, colder than I intended. I ignore the way Qianqian flinches back. "You know how busy I am, trying to provide for you. Trying to provide for our family."
"Don't give me that. I know you've been out drinking with your friends." She shoots back hotly, eyes flashing and body bristling. I don't know when the emotion in her eyes became unrecognizable. I used to know her like the back of my hand, but she has been drifting further and further away from me. "Dinner is 15 minutes at most, and even then, we rarely speak."
"10 minutes should be enough for you." I snap back before I can control my voice. I ignore her drinking accusation, hoping to shift the topic. "I'm trying my best to provide for our family." Poison spills from my tongue, years of resentment built up. "I'm tired of this, coming home to your constant nagging."
Qianqian's angry silence cloaks the dining room with a heavy, bitter ache.
I remembered the nights she'd stayed up, studying by the dim light of that same bulb, her eyes squinting as she pored over books I couldn't afford to care about. She dreamt of more, of escape, of a world that seemed as distant to me as the stars outside, and part of me resented her for it. She had always been the one with useless hope, the one who dared to believe that there was something better out there.
I had learned to temper my expectations, to settle into the life we had, finding scraps of satisfaction in survival.
Now, as I watched her, I felt resentment creeping up again, mingling with guilt, twisting itself into a knot in my chest. She was the one who dared to dream, who held onto hope even as it seemed to slip through her fingers. And here I was, clinging to the safety of this small, dreadful life, unable to let go, afraid to reach for more because I knew that, in the end, I would fail.
I looked at Qianqian, her face illuminated softly by the flickering light overhead. She was waiting for something – an explanation, perhaps, or a hint of honesty.
She deserved that much, but my lips refused to form the words. I focused instead on the food, the texture of the sweet potato crumbling against my tongue. It tasted like regret.
"Textiles," she repeated flatly. "That's all?"
I nodded, avoiding her eyes.
Her disappointment was palpable, yet she said nothing more. Instead, she resumed eating with measured bites, as if it took all her strength to continue.
"I'm sorry," I blurted abruptly. "I'll make it up to you."
She looked up, her chopsticks paused mid-air. "Make up what?"
It was a trap I had set for myself. "Everything," I said softly, my voice barely audible over the creak of the old wooden table as I shifted in my seat. "I'll make things better. I promise."
For a moment, I thought I saw her face soften, before returning to the steely gaze I was so used to seeing. "I don't need better, Taihan," she said, softly. "I just need you to be here."She motioned around the room, at the piles of clutter, the dirty dishes in the sink. "I'm tired too."
I nodded again, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. The truth was, I didn't know how to be fully present. My mind was always elsewhere – on the next meal, the next paycheck, the countless expectations that seemed impossible to meet. And now, on Isabelle.
I watched Qianqian as she resumed eating, her movements mechanical, as if it took all her strength just to keep going. Her chopsticks resumed their slow, deliberate scraping, pushing grains of rice into patterns only she could see.
I turned my own attention to the meal in front of me.
The food had gone cold.