Shanghai’s spring slipped away quietly amid white hazmat suits, like a poem held captive.

Fang Zhe stood on his balcony, gazing down at the deserted residential compound. Two months had passed, and this once-bustling city seemed to have been put on pause, plunged into an surreal silence. The cherry blossoms downstairs bloomed and withered, unnoticed by anyone. Occasionally, figures in protective gear hurried by, like unreal phantoms wandering through a forgotten dream.

On his phone, the company’s troubles grew increasingly dire. Remote work had slowed project timelines, and clients were starting to slip away. These worries clouded his mind like a storm, yet they couldn’t fully occupy his heart. In WeChat, his chat with Lin Jingxue remained pinned at the top, a constant light illuminating his lonely nights.

She was quarantined at school. Her Moments posts occasionally shared snippets of her daily life: empty corridors, wilted cherry blossoms beneath the dorm, vegetable packs distributed by the canteen. She rarely complained, though sometimes she’d send a song or a fragment of text late at night, like pieces of her soul cast into the void.

Fang Zhe found himself looking forward to these fleeting interactions. By day, it was endless video meetings and unrelenting crises. But at night, when the city fell silent, their conversations truly began, like two souls meeting in the emptiness.

"How long has it been since you last told your daughters a story?" Lin Jingxue asked one night, out of the blue.

Fang Zhe paused. Indeed, as his daughters grew older, he’d stopped telling them the impromptu fairy tales of their childhood. Yet those stories lingered like seeds, buried deep in his memory, waiting to be reawakened.

"‘Komunan,’ that was the longest story I ever told them," he replied. "I’d tell it bit by bit each night, stretching it out over a long time."

"Tell it to me?" Behind her words, he could almost see a pair of expectant eyes.

Fang Zhe looked at the simple message, and an idea struck him. "Instead of just listening, would you like to write it down?"

There was a brief silence from her end. "You mean, turn your spoken story into text for you?"

"Yes, I’d pay you for it. A formal contract, market rates," Fang Zhe paused. "Think of it as a way to pass the boredom of quarantine."

Lin Jingxue agreed quickly but insisted on hearing the full story from him first. And so, their nightly voice calls began. Fang Zhe narrated, Lin Jingxue listened, occasionally asking questions that guided him to flesh out the story’s details.

"Komunan was a girl who grew up in a forest..." Fang Zhe’s voice flowed through the night. "She thought she was the only living soul in that forest until one day, in the hollow of an ancient tree, she found a glowing book..."

The story unfolded slowly, like a canvas being painted stroke by stroke. To Fang Zhe’s surprise, as he told it to Lin Jingxue, details he’d never considered before emerged naturally. It was as if the story itself was growing, sprouting branches and blooming with strange flowers in this confined spring.

"The way you tell stories is so different now," Lin Jingxue said one day, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"How so?" Fang Zhe asked softly.

"Gentler. And more... real," she paused. "It’s like you’re a different person—like that’s the real you."

Fang Zhe fell into thought. He felt the same about her. As she worked on the story, she revealed not just a knack for writing but an insight beyond her years. She seemed to see into the heart of every character, articulating their deepest desires and pains, like a mirror reflecting the soul.

Spring faded quietly. The cherry blossoms fell, and summer’s breath began to stir above the city. Fang Zhe still stood on his balcony each day, watching the scenery below slowly change. But his heart was no longer as restless as it had been two months ago; it was as if he’d found a safe harbor.

In this city paused by the pandemic, in these tales of forests, ancient trees, and glowing books, he seemed to have found refuge. And within that refuge was a young girl, quietly listening to his stories—listening, perhaps, to the truest voice of his soul.

Fang Zhe knew that when the city awoke, when they met again, everything would change. But for now, in this pandemic-trapped city, in these flowing stories, time seemed to stand still—or perhaps it flowed in a different way, carrying him back to a primal innocence.

Moonlight spilled onto the balcony, a breeze bringing the scent of early summer. Fang Zhe opened his phone to begin tonight’s story. And across the city, in a small dorm room, Lin Jingxue waited quietly, ready for their myth to continue.

Lord, in these days of isolation, our souls have strangely drawn closer. Are You guiding us back to our origins through these stories, or is this merely a dream born of lonely times? I can no longer tell what’s real and what’s illusion.