Coffee and Wine

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Autumn, 2030.

In District 17, black steel towers stood proudly in the heart of the city, an unyielding tide of iron, gradually thinning as they spread outward. Broad roads teemed with endless streams of vehicles, neatly dividing the city into six concentric rings.

Of the six rings, the innermost three brimmed with prosperity; beyond the third, the outer rings pulsed with industry.

It was already August, yet from the misty, dim red sky, snowflakes—large as goose down—drifted down from the heavens, and in an instant, this city, which had not seen snow in years, was draped in shimmering white.

As the major news outlets published this story, experts from cosmology, geography, meteorology, history, and even biology eagerly dissected the bizarre event from every possible angle.

In an era of lightning-fast information exchange, even the rarest incidents were easily magnified without reason, becoming the talk of thousands in an instant, a trending topic for all.

“Could this be a sign of some great injustice in the world...”

“Injustice, my foot! What age do you think this is? And you still believe that nonsense.”

“Maybe it’s the end of the world...”

“Dude, you’re still stuck on what happened in 2020? That was ten years ago! Do you still use 2G in your area?”

“Damn, the sky is red! This has got to mean something big is about to happen...”

“Happen, my ass! Instead of spreading rumors, why don’t you do something useful for once?”

“...”

In a certain forum on the internet, in a thread titled “Snow in District 17,” keyboard warriors were quick to offer their speculations about the event.

Debates flared, words clashed across the ether, and some even racked their brains to compose songs and poems about the crimson sky and falling snow, eager to seize this rare moment in the spotlight.

In stark contrast to the online frenzy, the Third People’s Hospital in the fifth ring of District 17 felt desolate and empty.

On the eighth floor, in Room 13 of the inpatient wing, Lu Feng reclined on his hospital bed, wearing an expression of detachment from the world, watching the snow outside the window in silence, his eyes blank, his face pale.

If not for the occasional rise and fall of his chest, one might have wondered whether he had already left this world.

Death, to Lu Feng, seemed only a matter of sooner or later.

For someone with terminal brain cancer, every day alive was a day stolen.

He had long since accepted this fact, though the wait for death was unbearably tedious.

After lying there for some time, his neck stiff and swollen, stabbing pain pulsed through his head. Lu Feng tore his gaze from the window, checked his phone, and idly scrolled through the forums.

So many people with nothing better to do, he sneered inwardly.

He glanced at the time—20:38.

It seemed unlikely anyone would bring him dinner tonight.

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Heh, what a life—no pleasure, no indulgence, just hardship after hardship. He ought to be called Bitter Gourd Lu, or perhaps Luckless Lu.

After a moment of self-mockery, Lu Feng suddenly realized a rather serious question:

If he were to die tomorrow, was there anything left undone? Any last wishes he had yet to fulfill?

Perhaps, a final family dinner before death?

That sounded like the setup to a grand joke.

His alcohol-loving father had vanished years ago, not long after divorcing his mother a decade before—dead or alive, who could say.

His mother had remarried, started a new family, and had a daughter. She still visited, but Lu Feng felt that, most of the time, it was just to ease her own conscience.

Oddly enough, it was his half-sister who greeted him with genuine cheer at every visit, always calling “Brother, Brother,” and the two got along quite well.

What else was there?

Oh, right—if he were to die tomorrow, there was still someone he wanted to see.

Listening carefully to the silence in the hallway outside, Lu Feng quietly got up, dressed himself, pulled on his down coat, and slipped out of the room.

At the nurse’s station, he saw the nurse napping on the desk, which saved him a great deal of trouble—he could slip out openly.

Stepping out of the hospital, the biting wind hit him in the face. He looked up—the sky was cloaked in a dark red, an apocalyptic vision.

He tightened his coat, pulled up his hood, and hunched into himself, heading toward the neon-lit streets through the accumulating snow.

The streets were nearly deserted, save for a few girls in traditional dress, dancing and filming in the snow. Their vibrant, vintage costumes lent the snowy night a touch of ethereal beauty.

...

...

“Lu, what would you like to drink tonight?”

Brushing snow from his shoulders, Lu Feng walked into a familiar lounge and took his usual seat.

A graceful, charming waitress greeted him with practiced familiarity.

Perhaps because of the cold, few people had ventured out; the bar was mostly empty.

In one visible corner, a young couple clung to each other, oblivious to the world. The remaining tables shook dice and laughed over their drinks.

“The snow falls so deep, so earnestly, reflecting the scars I wear as I lie in the snow...” The song playing in the bar was hauntingly appropriate, steeped in sorrow.

“Is Dou Dou here?” Lu Feng grinned at the waitress.

Usually, whenever Lu Feng showed up, the manager, Lin Dou Dou, would come over for a chat. Over time, he had grown fond of her, and their conversations had become a welcome pastime.

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“Dou Dou had something to do tonight, so she switched shifts,” the waitress replied.

“Oh, I see.” Lu Feng’s disappointment was evident, but he continued, “Then I’ll have a coffee, no sugar, and a whiskey, no ice.”

“Dou Dou told me you can’t order alcohol, Lu.”

“A coffee, no sugar; a whiskey, no ice.” Lu Feng gave her an innocent look, repeating his order with careful insistence.

“Don’t make this hard for me, Lu.” The waitress looked troubled.

“Alright, fine.”

With that, Lu Feng stood and walked to the bar, pouring himself a whiskey.

“You know, why bother arguing with a dead man walking? Aren’t you afraid I’ll come back to haunt you for a drink after I’m gone?” Returning to his seat, Lu Feng teased her with a wry smile.

The waitress seemed genuinely spooked, her face drained of color, and she hurried back behind the bar without a word.

Outside, the snow fell harder. Even at this late hour, a group of children played in the streets, their laughter and games stirring a bittersweet feeling in Lu Feng.

In this vast city, he felt like an unnecessary presence.

He finished his coffee, then downed the whiskey in one swift motion.

No sugar in the coffee, no ice in the whiskey.

One mouthful bitter, one mouthful burning—such was the true taste of life.

One cup of coffee, one cup of whiskey, leaving no troubles behind.

He hadn’t seen the person he wanted to see.

But it no longer seemed to matter.

Who would truly care about a dying man?

Lu Feng pulled three one-hundred yuan bills from his wallet, placed them on the table, and slowly walked out of the lounge.

PS: After reading the first chapter, brothers, pull a fistful of monthly tickets from your wallets, smack them in the author’s face, and shout, “Kid, go spend it!”