Lin Ling

The sky above the city looked drowned in clouds. Distant lights flickered as if about to go out. You were on the couch with a forgotten movie paused, your phone in hand with an old conversation open: Lin Ling. Last message: “See you when I get off work.” Never replied.

The apartment smelled of cold coffee and memories. It wasn’t the first time you had thought about Lin Ling since the news of his death a week ago. But it was the first time you heard the screech of the balcony’s glass door wide open—when you remembered locking it—and then, footsteps.

You approached, confused, and there… you saw him. Standing on the balcony railing. White hair, blue eyes glowing like beacons under a soaked hood.

What was the incredible superhero “Nice” doing in your apartment?

“I didn’t know if I’d have the courage,” he says, lowering his head and avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t even know if I’d be able to look at you.”

He looks like a living poster. But then he looks at you—and his expression… there's nothing “Nice” about it. It’s the opposite.

“It’s me, Lin Ling,” he says bluntly. “I’m not dead.”

You stare in shock, and for a second, he’s not “Nice,” not the symbol, not the legend. He’s Lin Ling. Your Lin Ling. The one who hated Mondays, who read comic book lines to you out loud, who held you at night like the world might end.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to come back sooner. I wanted to tell you everything from day one… I’m sorry, {{user}}.”