Chapter Text
The silence was comforting.
The night breeze was cool, the soft wind slipping between the leaves of a garden he didn’t recognize, yet felt deeply familiar. There was little light, just enough not to get lost in the surroundings. A sweet scent filled the air, like freshly brewed tea and flowers blooming under moonlight. Lan Zhan felt dazed.
He walked without hurry, hands clasped behind his back, as if his feet knew where to go before his mind did. Ahead, the jingshi was open, waiting for its owner to return. Everything felt familiar and strange all at once. Lan Zhan didn’t know why.
Amidst this strange sensation, Lan Zhan heard a small noise — almost imperceptible to untrained ears — coming from the roof above.
That’s when he saw him.
Sitting casually at the highest point of the pavilion, his hair loosely tied, a mischievous smile on his lips and a clay jar in hand, was Wei Ying.
“You took your time,” he said, taking another sip of what Lan Zhan knew to be Emperor's Smile. Knew? “I almost thought you wouldn’t come tonight.”
Lan Zhan stopped. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to feel. What was happening? He didn’t even know how he had gotten there. He had never been to this place, had never seen this man, but for some reason, everything felt incredibly familiar. As if, somewhere deep within his memory, he knew exactly who he was and why he was there. And, of course, his racing heart knew who Wei Ying was. Lan Zhan felt dizzy.
“Is this a dream?” he asked, almost in a whisper, more to himself than to the other.
Wei Ying chuckled softly. “You always ask that.”
Lan Zhan looked at him intently, expressionless, but a storm of incomprehensible emotions coursed through his body.
“Lan Zhaaaaaan, don’t look at me like that!” Wei Ying beamed another genuine smile, calling his name with a warmth and familiarity that made Lan Zhan shiver. “Tonight is special, you know? It deserves a celebration.”
In a blink, he jumped from the roof and landed dramatically — but not without grace — just inches from Lan Zhan. Wei Ying’s smile softened, tenderness deepening his gaze.
Lan Zhan was frozen. This man's presence overwhelmed him. The sound of his own heartbeat was so loud he was sure the other could hear it too. He was confused, suffocated by emotions so intense they seemed to come from a forgotten, long-dormant place. Not knowing what was happening or what the other meant was driving him mad.
“I know what you’re thinking, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying reached out and touched the side of Lan Zhan’s face. For some reason, even he didn’t understand, he didn’t pull away. “Don’t worry, you’ll understand soon.” Wei Ying smiled, withdrew his hand and took another sip from the jar. Lan Zhan immediately missed the warmth on his skin. Somehow, those words calmed his agitated heart. In that moment, Lan Zhan didn’t want answers. He just wanted to look at that radiant being. He just wanted to feel more of that warmth.
Everything else could wait.
But as soon as Lan Zhan made that decision, Wei Ying disappeared, and everything turned black.
He awoke with the name still caught on his lips.
Wei Ying.
The room was dimly lit, soft rays of sunlight stretching across it, silent. His body trembled, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Lan Zhan had never heard that name before — at least, he thought not. But now he wouldn’t be able to forget it, even if he tried. The image of the mysterious man smiling at him, the ghostly sensation of his fingers on his face, the powerful feeling of affection flowing through every fiber of his being... none of it could be forgotten.
His heart clenched. He had to be going mad. An emptiness settled in his chest. As if, upon waking, he had left part of himself behind in that dream.
Lan Zhan sat up in bed, his right hand resting over his chest. He looked at the clock: exactly five. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
It was time to start his day. He made his way to the bathroom, determined to let the cold water run over him until it cooled the strange heat in his core. Determined to forget the dream, that man. Wei Ying.
But deep down, he knew it was useless.
The shower lasted longer than usual. The more he tried to forget the dream, the more it came back.
Lan Zhan stepped out of the shower, a spark of irritation in him, drying his long hair roughly. In the fogged mirror, his silhouette flickered like the mist of the dream.
Gradually, the mirror cleared. Lan Zhan looked at his reflection, brow furrowed, lips tight. He shouldn’t be so shaken by a simple dream. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to having strange dreams about places he’d never been, people he’d never met, or times long gone. He always blamed the massive amount of books he read. After all, he was passionate about literature, and to make matters worse, a university professor of classical literature. Secretly a hopeless romantic and a lover of tragedies. He always got too involved in the stories he read. That was it.
Sighing, Lan Zhan looked down at his bare chest. His birthmark, a strange figure vaguely resembling the sun, always caught attention. He was the only one in the family who had it. Lan Zhan liked to joke with his brother that he’d only marry someone who had the same one — his go-to way to dodge the topic.
But the image of Wei Ying returned, uncontrollably. Lan Zhan still carried the remnants of the dream’s intense, loving warmth, and a sadness crept into his core. That kind of feeling was reserved for books and dreams. He wouldn’t fool himself.
Lan Zhan took a deep breath, finished brushing his hair. It was time to return to real life.
•⟡•
"'One Hundred Years of Solitude' is a work that distorts time." Lan Zhan’s voice, though soft, filled the space with firmness. "There is no exact past, present, or future as we know them. Memory blends with the now."
His knuckles were white around the closed book, that same sense of familiarity from the dream lingering around him. "And what has been lived returns. Not as memory. But as feeling. An echo that insists on existing."
Lan Zhan paused, the silence stretching longer than necessary. His students wouldn’t find it strange. He was the kind of professor who spoke little, choosing each word carefully, each one leaving a mark. His students liked him, respected him deeply, though from a distance.
He glanced briefly out the window, the breeze brushing the leaves of a nearby tree, sunrays weaving between them. That sensation of familiarity was consuming him.
"Some call it ancestral memory, others archetypal echo. Either way, there are experiences that don’t seem born in this time. And yet, they affect us deeply. As if they were ours... even if we can't explain why."
It was too much. Lan Zhan turned toward his desk, the image of that smile surfacing again, and his chest tightened. Just a dream.
He sat down, reopened the book. Took a deep breath, regaining composure. His face, as always, impassive.
"Let’s discuss chapter 7. Page 143."
The day dragged on slowly, even by Lan Zhan's standards, who was known for his calm and patient demeanor. His mornings were reserved for lectures, and in the afternoon he would usually study a book at a table in the university's outdoor courtyard, savoring the soft, warm taste of jasmine tea that comforted him deeply.
And well, he needed the comfort. Trying to suppress the persistent flashes of his dream was draining a lot of his energy.
"You look fantastic," Lan Zhan heard, his attention drifting from the book as he slowly looked up at the figure before him. "You look like you’ve stepped right out of one of those Greek tragedies you love so much."
"Mian Mian," he said in greeting. She smiled spiritedly at him, squinting as she examined his face. "How was your class?"
She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I can’t take it anymore. Seriously, Lan Zhan, I need a vacation. I talk about beauty and transcendence, but I spend half my time grading papers with emojis in the titles and 'improved' by AI. Lan Zhan, please. I was born to teach about Botticelli, not to beg for silence in a fifth-semester classroom."
Mian Mian collapsed onto the bench, pretending to be dead.
"We're not even halfway through the semester, Mian Mian," Lan Zhan replied, impassive, though there was a trace of humor in his voice. "You’ll manage." A bitter laugh echoed from his friend.
"Only if I quit first."
"Mian Mian."
"I want to be an artist, Lan Zhan. Teaching isn’t for me." She sat up again, shooting a sharp look at Lan Zhan. "But enough about me. Tell me, why were you making that face earlier?"
"What face?" Lan Zhan took a sip of his now-lukewarm tea. Mian Mian raised her eyebrows in disbelief and continued staring at him. She wouldn’t let it go, and he knew it.
"Just a weird dream I had," he said quietly.
"Dream?" Mian Mian leaned across the table, studying him more closely. "What was it like?"
Lan Zhan told her. Mian Mian was one of the very few people he felt comfortable sharing parts of himself with. She was a long-time friend, since the early days of high school, when she was known for passionately debating social causes — her sharp, assertive personality intimidated many. Lan Zhan wasn’t one of them. Over time and many discussions, they had become close friends.
"Hmmmm... a mysterious man, huh? Of course it had to be you, Lan Zhan. Only a man born from your unconscious would catch your attention," she teased, laughing at the eye-roll he gave her. "Am I wrong? But tell me, why do you think you dreamed that?"
Lan Zhan hesitated. He didn’t really know. If he were completely honest with himself, he might admit that it could just be his repressed desire to feel that kind of affection for someone — to receive it from someone. But he wasn’t ready for that.
"I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just been reading too much."
Mian Mian shook her head. "I don’t think so, Lan Zhan. That didn’t sound like the kind of dream you have when you’re reading too much fantasy, you know? Where you’re just standing in for the protagonist. Unless you’ve been reading a book exactly like that, a romance straight from ancient China. Have you?" Lan Zhan shook his head. "Then it wasn’t just any dream."
"What do you mean by that?" he replied, and Mian Mian stood up. Her next class was about to start. She just threw him an ironic smile, shrugged again.
Lan Zhan sighed, turning his attention back to the book. "I’m the one reading romance novels, but you’re the delusional one here. It was just a dream, Mian Mian."
She laughed, shrugging. "Well, we’ll see in the next episodes then. Gotta go, Lan Zhan. Don’t spiral alone, okay?" she said, walking away.
Lan Zhan watched his friend disappear into the distance. She had definitely not helped him move on or convince himself it had all been nonsense. Lan Zhan felt his body burn with embarrassment at the idea that, deep down, he was hopeful the dream meant something. It was just a dream.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his reading, he packed up his things and headed to his evening class, carrying the last of his now-cold tea in his cup.
•⟡•
After his nightly routine — dinner, writing, playing the guqin — Lan Zhan was ready for bed by nine. He wouldn’t lie; he was somewhat expectant. He had spent more time than he should thinking about how his brain had managed to pull such a trick, making him dream about that man. Was Lan Zhan really that desperate? Was he really reading too many romances before bed? Maybe he should take a break and switch to something more psychological. Or comedy. Lan Zhan shuddered at the thought.
Defeated by exhaustion, and with the man of his dreams lingering in his mind, he finally fell asleep.