Work Text:
Zhehan wakes to the feeling of someone shaking him softly.
He mumbles and squeezes his eyes closed, then blinks them open. He blinks again. No one is there. The memory of hands is warm on his shoulders.
He sits up.
From the kitchen Zhehan can hear the soft beginnings of a kettle-whistle and the sound of something frying. No one is home.
He throws the covers back. Pulls on some clothes. Pads out of the room.
The kitchen is empty. At the table is a fresh cup of tea and two eggs, still steaming.
Behind the breakfast, stacked on the yellow tablecloth he doesn't own, are three small books. In front of them rests a folded sheet of paper. He picks it up and reads, "didn't know which you'd like best. Pick your favorite."
Zhehan taps the note against the back of the chair, then pulls out the chair and sits down.
He slides a book towards him and flips open the cover.
Zhang Zhehan, he reads, is an acclaimed director. His early years were pocked with rough starts and scandals but he found success after turning away from his wild youth. His works are well respected: he's hit box office records and won two Golden Roosters. Late in life, after collecting an honorary degree and a lifetime achievement award, he directs a series of arthouse films. The last one is screened at Cannes; everyone says nice things and no one understands it. Soon after, he retires and disappears from public view. When he passes away several years later, the news is met with surprise that he was still alive and reminiscences about his blockbusters.
Zhehan closes the book. He sips the tea.
He picks up the second book and pages through it, settling in the middle.
Zhang Zhehan's students love his art and history lessons, he reads. Parents praise how deftly he can coax even the shyest kids out of their shells. Occasionally a parent or neighbor notices a resemblance to that bold, bighearted actor who disappeared, but everyone agrees that can't be their Zhang Zhehan. He's married with three small kids; his family eats at his mother's house every Sunday. His wife laughs and doesn't let him in the kitchen. When his youngest daughter is seven--
He flips a few more pages and puts the book down.
The third book is next. He taps his fingers over the cover. Pauses.
He slides it away.
He pulls the sheet of paper towards him and writes, "thanks, but none of these are really it. Hope you kept the receipt. Buy yourself something nice."
He refolds the paper and sets it on the books.
Outside, the sun is rising, turning the morning golden and new. Zhehan leans back and watches it, holding the mug to his chest. After a few moments, he drains the tea, sets down the cup, and gets to his feet. He crosses the apartment and opens the door.
He leaves.
The door swings firmly closed behind him.
—
Zhang Zhehan: live well, and may all your wishes come true.