The alarm buzzes at half past six, loud enough to rattle the thin walls of my apartment. I let it ring a few seconds longer before dragging my hand across the nightstand. The cracked ceiling stares back at me like a scar I can't stop examining.

Cold water shocks my face awake in the bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back looks foreign - pale skin, sunken eyes. At least I got more than two hours of sleep last night.

The kitchen offers little comfort. My nearly expired milk and a bruised apple are the only occupants of my fridge. I eat instant noodles without tasting them, steam fogging my glasses.

Shenyang's streets pulse with life outside, but I move through them like a ghost. The No. 214 bus smells of sweat and regret. I find a window seat and watch the city slide past - Soviet-style blocks with peeling paint, a bakery steaming with customers, a fruit stand with pyramids of peaches glowing faintly in the morning light.

At Northern HealthTech Solutions, I slide into my cubicle and power up my computer. Patient IDs and hospital codes blur before me. Chen Yifan from the next cubicle leans over.

"Morning, ghost man," he says with a grin. "Heard about Friday? Boss says we're all going out. Hotpot, karaoke, the whole deal."

I give a noncommittal hum and slip on headphones, though no music plays. The emptiness presses in around me, and I wonder if I'll ever feel alive again.

The day drags on until my senior assigns me to check a database link at First Affiliated Hospital. Two subway stops away. I gather my things and walk out, ignoring Chen's sympathetic look.

The hospital smells of disinfectant and hope. Nurses move quickly down corridors, doctors pass with files tucked under arms. I'm directed to the data room where mismatched reports await my attention.

Hours later, as I finish, a voice echoes down the hallway - bright, unguarded laughter that sends a shock through my system.

"When I graduate, I'll apply to medical school."

The memory hits me like a physical blow. Tian's voice, steady with confidence yet softened by warmth. I haven't thought of that conversation in years.

I hurry from the hospital as evening falls, the voice haunting me like a half-remembered song. By the time I unlock my apartment door, my phone buzzes with a message from my brother about our father demanding money again.

I stare at the screen, then set the phone down without replying. The emptiness in this apartment suddenly feels overwhelming. I reach for my old laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long moment before I open my music folder. It hasn't been touched in years.

As I stare at the waveform of an old recording - Tian playing piano in a high school practice room - a notification appears. Liu Xuan Cheng: "Hey, haven't seen you around lately. You okay?"

I type back: "Yeah, breathing."

But as I stare at the screen, the ghost of Tian's laughter echoes again, and for the first time in years, I wonder if there's more to life than just breathing.