The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 1

Fog-Locked Old City

Autumn in Wugang is softened by the soaking fog.

At five-thirty in the morning, the leaden thick fog was like a piece of water-logged cotton, tightly wrapping the entire coastal old city. Even the branches of the crooked banyan tree at the alley entrance were condensed with a layer of fine, cold water droplets that went drip, drip, falling onto the bluestone-paved road and blooming into faint rings of water marks. Shen Zhiyi was awakened by this dripping sound—not a natural awakening, but a forced pull from her light sleep by the notification chime of a rent collection text message.

She was curled up on a folding camp bed in the corner of the studio. The thin quilt was crumpled in her grip, the fabric still stained with unwashed cobalt blue pigment. The room was not large; it was an attic converted from an old residential building with a cramped ceiling height. The roof pressed down at an angle, so low that she could almost touch the mottled peeling wall if she reached out. Almost all four walls were occupied by easels, canvases, paint tubes, and sketch paper. Stacks of completed commercial commissions were piled in the corners, some rolled into tubes and others laid flat. The colors transitioned slowly from bright macaron tones to dull grayish-blue and ink-black, mirroring her downward-spiraling mood over the past half month.

The phone screen was still lit, the landlord’s message blunt and mean: Miss Shen, if this month’s rent is delayed any longer, I’ll have no choice but to change the locks. Houses in the Old Town District aren’t hard to rent out. You’re a painter; don’t occupy the space without doing your part. The exclamation mark at the end was like a fine needle, stabbing ruthlessly into Shen Zhiyi’s already fragile nerves. Her fingertips turned white as she slowly swiped across the screen. Due to long-term use of a pen, she had thin calluses on her knuckles, and her fingertips still bore traces of ochre pigment. As she rubbed them against the cold tempered glass, they left a faint smudge.

The rent was three thousand eight hundred yuan. For a freelance illustrator who had just graduated and lacked a stable contract with a company, it was a small mountain weighing on her shoulders.

Shen Zhiyi sat up and rubbed her aching temples. A night of light sleep had left her eyes bloodshot, and the dark circles beneath them were particularly prominent. She stepped barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Tiny pencil shavings and paint fragments were stuck in the gaps of the floorboards, pricking the soles of her feet slightly, but the sensation helped her wake up completely from her chaotic drowsiness. Walking to the only floor-to-ceiling window, she reached out to wipe away the condensed mist on the glass. The world outside was a blur. The pier cranes in the distance only showed a vague black shadow, and even the sound of the sea breeze was filtered soft by the thick fog, making it indistinct. Only the continuous wind, carrying a salty and fishy dampness, seeped through the window cracks, brushing past her black hair scattered over her shoulders and bringing a bone-chilling cold.

This was Wugang, a coastal city perpetually occupied by fog.

Some said the fog in Wugang was romantic, wrapping the gentleness of the sea breeze and hiding the secrets of the city. But in Shen Zhiyi’s eyes, this fog was suffocating—a seamless cage, like the shackles her original family had wrapped around her, like the livelihood she held in her hands but could not grasp, and like the ineradicable inferiority and sensitivity in her bones. It was hazy and dim; she could not see the path ahead, nor could she find a way back.

She had graduated from the Wugang Academy of Fine Arts as an oil painting major. Back then, she had been admitted with a score in the top three of her major. Her teachers all said she had a spiritual quality; the light, shadows, and emotions under her brush possessed a transparency rarely seen in her peers. Yet, only three months after graduation, reality had ground that spiritual quality into pieces. Her parents, who favored boys over girls, had made it clear on her graduation day: the family would not give her a single cent of support. All the money had to be saved for her younger brother to buy a house and marry a wife. For a girl like her, having attended university was already considered doing right by her. As for the road ahead, she would have to finish it even if she had to crawl.

Requests for her brother’s tuition and living expenses would hit her via WeChat transfer requests every few days. Her parents’ phone calls were always full of accusations and demands, never a single word of concern. She didn’t dare return to her hometown, nor did she dare listen to those words like “it’s useless for a girl to study so much” or “can painting put food on the table?” She could only clutch her graduation certificate and rent this attic studio with a floor-to-ceiling window in the Wugang Old Town District, stuffing all her emotions into brushes and pigments.

But painting really couldn’t put food on the table.

Prices for commercial illustration orders were suppressed ruthlessly. Clients’ requirements were bizarre, and it was normal to revise a piece eight or ten times, only for the final payment to be delayed by a month or two. The final payment for her last order of children’s book illustrations had yet to be settled. The client used “style does not meet expectations” as an excuse to withhold half the fee, and even the printing proofing fees she had advanced went down the drain. She had already delayed this month’s rent for ten days. The landlord’s patience was exhausted, and the eviction notice in the text was the final ultimatum.

Shen Zhiyi sighed and sat down at her drawing desk. The solid wood desk had developed a patina from use. It was covered with an anti-fouling mat and piled with a digital tablet, watercolors, lining pens, palettes, and a thick stack of commercial commission requirement sheets. She turned on her old laptop. The fan buzzed loudly, and a faint heat drifted from the exhaust vent. The screen lit up, showing the backend of an illustration commission platform. There were ninety-nine unread messages, most of them from clients haggling over prices, along with a few rejection notices.

She scrolled with her mouse, her gaze lingering on the low-priced requests.

Ancient style Q-version avatars, 20 yuan each, 20 pieces a week, no revisions.

E-commerce detail page illustrations, simple sketch style, 50 yuan each, discounts for large quantities.

Small illustrations for public account covers, 30 yuan each, same-day delivery required.

The prices for these orders were ridiculously low; the time and energy required were completely disproportionate to the reward. Before graduation, Shen Zhiyi wouldn’t have even spared them a glance. Her paintings had once been priced at four figures at the academy art exhibition and had been scouted by local galleries. But now, she didn’t have the luxury to be picky. To scrape together the rent, to survive, and to protect this only studio that allowed her to breathe, she could only lower her head. She clicked on a request for “Catering brand takeout packaging illustrations, simple food illustrations, 80 yuan each, 15 pieces delivered in a week” and pressed the accept button.

The client’s requirements were crude: “Must be vibrant, must be festive, must see the food at a glance. No need for any artistic sense, just as long as it attracts customers.” Even the reference images were low-quality illustrations randomly pulled from the internet. Shen Zhiyi’s hand holding the stylus trembled slightly. It wasn’t anger, but a sourness welling up from the bottom of her heart, like wood soaked in seawater—heavy and stifling. The artistic pursuits she once cherished as treasures had become worthless in the face of rent and livelihood.

She adjusted the parameters of her digital tablet and opened the canvas. First, she outlined a bowl of seafood noodles. The lines were stiff and hurried, lacking even a fraction of the fluid spiritual quality her work usually possessed. The fog outside grew thicker, and the daylight never seemed to brighten. The entire studio was shrouded in a gloomy cold light, with only the white light of the computer screen reflecting her increasingly pale face. She filled in the colors stroke by stroke—red oil, fresh shrimp, green vegetables—deliberately using highly saturated colors to cater to the “festive” look the client demanded. The painting under her brush was noisy and gaudy, forming a sharp contrast with the desolation and coldness in her heart.

By the time she reached the seventh drawing, her stomach let out a growling protest. Only then did she remember that she had only eaten half a bag of instant noodles yesterday, and she hadn’t had a drop of water since waking up today. In the studio’s storage cabinet, there was only half a pack of compressed biscuits and a bottle of nearly expired mineral water left. She unscrewed the cap and gulped down two mouthfuls of cold water. The icy liquid slid down her throat, making her shiver and causing a sharp pain in her stomach.

She didn’t dare order takeout. The money for one takeout meal was enough to buy two bags of instant noodles, enough to help her hold on for one more day.

Putting down the water bottle, her gaze accidentally swept over the unfinished oil painting next to the floor-to-ceiling window. It depicted the old Wugang pier—a misty sea, a few fishing boats returning to harbor, and a lighthouse casting a warm yellow light through the fog. The brushstrokes were gentle and restrained, the tones quiet and calm. It was something she had painted secretly in her spare time, without client requirements or the pressure of making a living, painted purely because she wanted to. This was the only bit of private land left in her life full of trivialities, a small piece of spiritual quality that hadn’t been smoothed over by reality.

She looked at the painting, her fingertips lightly brushing over the undried pigment on the canvas. Mist drifted in through the window crack and landed on the surface, blooming into a small patch of light blue like a silent tear.

Just then, the sound of a car engine cutting out came from downstairs, followed by the light thud of a car door closing, which was exceptionally clear in the silent, foggy alley. Shen Zhiyi didn’t pay much attention. The alleys in the Old Town District were narrow, and occasional outside vehicles drove in—mostly lost tourists or locals visiting the old streets. She withdrew her gaze and stared back at the computer screen, continuing to rush through those cheap commercial illustrations. The tip of her pen slid across the digital tablet, making a faint scratching sound that intertwined with the dripping water and the wind outside, becoming the only background noise in the studio.

She didn’t know that this black sedan parked at the alley entrance would become the most burning and fatal accident of her life.

Lu Wanheng had been led into this old alley by her navigation.

She had spent the whole morning doing field research for the pier renovation project. She had finished with the skyscrapers, financial centers, and modern ports of the New District. Her assistant said the old pier site in the Old Town District hid the most original atmosphere of Wugang and would be valuable for the project’s design proposal. So, she had driven over, only to encounter heavy fog blocking the roads and a malfunctioning navigation system. After several twists and turns, she had driven into this narrow alley that wasn’t even detailed on the map.

After the car stalled, the thick fog instantly enveloped the vehicle, reducing visibility to less than five meters. Lu Wanheng unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned back against the seat, rubbing the space between her brows. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit, she looked tall and cold. The platinum cufflinks at her wrists glinted with a low-key light. Her fingers held a project report with a gold-stamped cover, filled with dense annotations that exuded the efficiency and pressure unique to an investment banking elite. She had just finished a four-hour project negotiation and hadn’t even had a sip of water before rushing to the Old Town District. Days of high-pressure work had left a trace of imperceptible fatigue in her eyes.

She rolled down the car window, and the salty, damp sea breeze poured in, dispersing the stifling cold air inside the car. Looking up, the entire alley was submerged in thick fog. The bluestone road was wet, dark green vines climbed the walls, and old residential buildings were scattered about, carrying a sort of tranquility forgotten by time. Just as her gaze swept across the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor, she suddenly froze.

That oil painting hanging in front of the window crashed into her sight.

The misty pier, the returning fishing boats, the warm yellow lighthouse—the brushstrokes were gentle yet restrained. There was no deliberate showing off of skill, yet it vividly portrayed the damp cold, loneliness, and tenderness of Wugang. It was a touch that had been worn down by life yet still retained purity and softness, a world completely different from the exquisite commercial artworks she was used to seeing or the utilitarian restlessness of investment bank conference rooms.

Lu Wanheng had struggled in the investment banking world for many years and was used to deception and the exchange of interests. Her heart had long since been wrapped in a hard shell. Her last failed same-sex relationship had caused her to build high walls against all soft emotions. But at this moment, looking at that painting, a corner of the hard shell around her heart was actually nudged open, giving rise to a rare and inexplicable stir of emotion.

She pushed open the car door and stepped onto the wet bluestone, walking toward that floor-to-ceiling window. The sound of her high heels tapping against the ground was crisp and clear in the foggy alley, step by step, approaching that attic studio hidden with mist and brushes.

Inside the studio, Shen Zhiyi was still buried in her digital tablet, rushing to finish those cheap takeout packaging illustrations. The white light of the computer screen cast alternating shadows of light and dark across her face. She was too focused on her immediate livelihood, too immersed in her own embarrassment and sensitivity, to notice that outside the window, a gaze was falling upon her painting and her body through the thick fog and glass.

The hand she used to hold the pen trembled slightly. The outline of the seafood noodles under her brush went a bit crooked, and she quickly hit undo to redraw it. Because of the force she used, her knuckles turned pale. Her stomach was still hungry, her gut still ached, the pressure of rent weighed on her heart like a giant boulder, and her family’s indifference was like a thorn stuck in her soul. The fog outside was too thick to disperse, much like her unclear future.

She didn’t know that this heavy fog shrouding Wugang and this unexpected encounter would pull her into an extremely intense love that would ultimately turn to ashes. She knew even less that this stranger looking at her work through the fog would become the only light in her short life, and the eternal sorrow of the regrets that would fill the rest of her days.

The thick fog continued to spread, the water droplets continued to fall, the brush continued to slide, and the sedan remained parked at the alley entrance.

The story of Wugang quietly began in this damp and hazy mist. Shen Zhiyi’s three thousand eight hundred yuan rent and Lu Wanheng’s pier research—two completely different life trajectories—intersected for the first time in front of this attic studio in the Old Town District. Like two drops of water falling into the sea, they created tiny ripples and then could no longer be separated until they were completely swallowed by the waves of fate.

She finally finished the eighth illustration, saved the file, and let out a long sigh of relief. Looking up out the window, the fog was still heavy, though she could vaguely see a black car parked at the alley entrance, its body blurred into a dark shadow in the mist. She didn’t think much of it, only feeling that the car’s lines were smooth and it clearly looked expensive, completely out of place in this dilapidated old alley. It was just like those bright and beautiful worlds she had never touched—distant and foreign.

She stood up, walked to the window, and wiped the mist from the glass again. Her gaze fell on the unfinished oil painting of the pier, and she murmured softly, her voice as thin as a mosquito, swallowed by the sound of the wind: Just hold on a little longer. Once I finish the drafts, the rent will be taken care of, and the studio can be saved.

But she didn’t know that some things cannot be kept, no matter how hard one tries.

Just as the fog of Wugang will eventually dissipate; just as the brush held in one’s hand will eventually stop; just as the coming love, though passionate and grand, can only leave behind a ground full of lingering warmth and a lifelong regret that can never be released.

Deep in the thick fog, the door of the black sedan opened again, and a tall figure walked slowly toward the attic.