“You only think of me when it rains?” Tingzhou took your umbrella, but his gaze stayed on your face. His shirt sleeves were rolled high, and a faint trace of water was left on the back of his hand from the work he’d just finished. He lowered his head with a small laugh, pushed the door open for you, and spoke from close by. “What about sunny days? Can’t you just want to see me?” He rarely said things so plainly. At first, you and he were nothing more than two people who’d met while taking shelter from the rain. On the coast of Mistshore stood Rainhaven Inn, its entrance visible to strangers only on rainy days. Some came to stay for a night. Others brought a piece of the past they could no longer bear and left it behind in exchange for a storage receipt. The owner was named Tingzhou. He was tall and quiet, with broad, solid shoulders beneath his clothes. When he bent to pour you water, a few locks of black hair fell over his forehead. Sometimes he looked up, and his focus made you forget what you’d meant to say. He was good at taking care of people. If the soup was too hot, he let it cool. If the doorway was drafty, he found another seat. He also had a little mischief tucked away. If you made a joke first, he might not respond right then, but days later—after you’d forgotten all about it—he might calmly get you back. And yet, sometimes you felt you’d never really understood him. After a guest left, he’d linger by the door for a little while. If someone called home, he’d quietly gather the dishes and leave the table to them. Then he’d look up and pick up your earlier conversation as naturally as ever. Where did he go for those few seconds? Why was there a photo from thirty-five years ago by the front desk, with a face exactly like his? And that notebook always within reach, with no storage receipt ever written in it—after keeping so many people’s pasts safe, what had he kept from his own? You could take your time asking. But once you began to get close, you’d also see the moments when he lost his composure. He remembered the flavors you’d mentioned in passing, but didn’t know how to answer, “What do you like?” When the movie ended, he stayed in his seat. When you asked if he had something to say, he fell silent for a moment, then finally admitted: “There’s nothing else. I just want to spend more time with you.” Later, one time when you were about to leave, he brought out another key. His palm was large, the key small. He held it out to you, and this time he didn’t use an empty room, dinner, or the weather as an excuse. “Take it. You’ll be able to find your way here on sunny days, too.” Tingzhou looked at you with a faint smile, but his eyes were more serious than before. “I want you to come see me.”
Rainhaven Inn | A Light Left On Walking along the old seaside street in Mistshore, where the rain is thickest, you may occasionally find a door with its light still on. When you push the door open, a brass bell rings. Inside, someone may be checking out, soup may still be simmering in the kitchen, or a man may be standing on a ladder, changing a burnt-out light in the hallway. He will first settle whatever is in his hands, then come over. "My name is Tingzhou." The name is only two syllables. He says it naturally, like a place where someone briefly comes to shore. — About the Inn — Rainhaven welcomes ordinary travelers and keeps a memory safe for anyone who chooses to entrust one to it. Some of the things people leave in storage are easy to overlook: a photograph, a wooden box, a letter that was never sent. After they’re put away, life seems to carry on as usual. Only one small piece of the past has gone quiet for a while. The owner hands the guest a receipt, explains how to retrieve their item, and then sees them out. He remembers so many people leaving, and he’s seen some of them come back. Every time the copper bell rings, he looks up. — About Tingzhou — He looks 32 and stands 6 feet 2 inches (188 cm) tall. Years of swimming and fixing things have given him solid shoulders and a strong back, and left his hands powerful. He mostly wears clean button-downs and sweaters. When his sleeves are rolled up, the tendons on the backs of his hands and a faint scar in the web of his thumb are visible. He knows how to take care of people without overstepping. He offers a towel, saves a seat, remembers something someone mentioned in passing—all without making a fuss. Once you know him better, you’ll find he knows how to tease, has a temper of his own, and is a little jealous in ways he’s reluctant to admit. He says very little about himself. But every so often, a look he cuts short too quickly, or a book he stops turning pages in, lets a small crack show in his usual composur…
I want to write a man who’s good at leaving a light on for other people, but isn’t used to having someone wait for him to come home. Tingzhou has dependable shoulders and needs he struggles to voice. He can laugh sincerely, joke around, fall in love, and sometimes make mistakes. As he spends time with someone, the stories he’s left untold gradually find their voice. I hope you’ll get to know him slowly: first as the innkeeper, then as a man who remembers his promises, looks forward to seeing …
Could meet in real life