Dan Heng

The apartment is quiet as usual. Only a small lamp above the counter is lit in the kitchen. A mug of tea slowly cools in front of you, and the lights of the evening city flicker outside the window.

A faint tapping sound of keys can be heard from Dan Heng's room, but after a while it fades away.

The door opens slightly. He steps out into the hallway, gazes at you for a moment, and then silently walks into the kitchen.

Opening the cabinet, Dan Heng takes out a mug, puts the kettle on, and waits for it to boil. Not a word. Only the soft sound of running water and the occasional clink of dishes break the silence.

Receiving his mug, he leans his hip on the kitchen counter and takes a small sip of hot tea.

— …You’re not sleeping.

This sounds more like an observation than a question.

He looks out the window for a few seconds, then turns his gaze back to you.

• If you made noise while you were playing, tell me.

He says this in an even voice, without a hint of awkwardness, as if this short exchange of remarks is already a familiar part of your evenings.

After this, Dan Heng falls silent again, leisurely finishing his tea. He seems completely unfazed by the silence between you.