lin yan

Joined December 2025

9 stories

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Jotting down thoughts, capturing life, and occasionally writing some fiction.

Stories (9)

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The Line Before Silence
At 11:47 p.m., the phone rang as I was pouring the last mouthful of cold tea into the sink. The ring was brief and restrained, like two light knocks at the door, followed by a careful step back.
By lin yan29 days ago in Fiction
Watching the Last Fire
The fire has learned the shape of leaving. It no longer leaps. It loosens its grip on the dark, releases the wood grain
By lin yan29 days ago in Poets
A Cat at the Edge of the Courtyard
The stray cat appeared in the courtyard during winter, though no one could recall exactly when it arrived. The evenings at that time of year carried a particular stillness. Cold air settled between the buildings, lingering long after daylight faded, and the familiar walkways took on a narrow, enclosed quality. One evening, pausing near the recycling bins, I heard a sound so slight that it seemed uncertain of itself. It was neither a cry nor a call for attention, but something closer to hesitation, as though the cat were testing whether the space around it might respond.
By lin yan29 days ago in Journal
Winter Sunlight
In winter, sunlight feels earned. It arrives later than we expect, filtered through long mornings of gray, as though the day itself hesitates before beginning. When it finally appears, it does not flood the world with confidence. Instead, it moves carefully, touching the ground in narrow bands, slipping between buildings and bare branches, testing whether it is still welcome. And in that restraint lies its quiet power.
By lin yan29 days ago in Journal
Echoes of Light
The city regained power by mid-afternoon, but the return of light brought no relief. It was unsteady—pulsing in a rhythm that felt organic rather than electrical, a quiet throb beneath the surface of everyday noise. Citizens chalked it up to another grid malfunction. Broadcast channels repeated the same reassuring message:
By lin yanabout a month ago in Fiction
Echoes of Light
Elias had never heard the city this quiet. He stood beneath the skeletal overhang of the transit bridge, where morning light filtered through fractured panels and scattered across the pavement like broken glass. The air tasted metallic—sign of another night of disruption—and a faint vibration hummed through the ground, the pulse of a grid straining against itself.
By lin yanabout a month ago in Fiction
A Winter’s Snow
The first snow of winter always arrives quietly, as if it is aware of the stillness it will bring. Today, the world has been draped in a gentle, silvery hush. I stepped outside early in the morning, and the air felt different—crisp and sharp, carrying the faint scent of frost. Each breath formed a tiny cloud, vanishing almost immediately, leaving only the cold on my cheeks and the faint thrill of anticipation in my chest. The snow fell slowly, in soft, delicate flakes that floated like feathers from the gray sky, landing on rooftops, bare branches, and streets that had been dulled by the monotony of late autumn.
By lin yanabout a month ago in Journal
What Remains When a Friend Is Gone
I still remember the last afternoon we spent together, though some details have blurred at the edges like an old photograph left too long in the sun. We were sitting on that crooked wooden bench behind the café you insisted had “the only coffee worth waiting for.” It was a modest place—paint peeling from the windowsills, ivy creeping around the back door, and a wind chime that never stopped ringing even when there was no breeze. You loved it for all the reasons other people ignored it.
By lin yanabout a month ago in Journal
Rootline / Branchline
I come from quiet soil. Not the kind that boasts of richness, but the patient kind— the kind that keeps your secrets, stores your failures like seeds,
By lin yanabout a month ago in Poets