It wasn’t until her third day in the new office that Lin Wan noticed the empty workstation in the corner by the window.
Unlike the uniform cubicles surrounding it, this one had a small, faded sunflower sticker on the corner of the desk. Next to the monitor sat a chipped mug with a half-circle of dried tea stains on the bottom. The drawer wasn’t locked; inside lay an empty fountain pen, a few crumpled sticky notes, and an expired movie ticket stub.
The administrative staff said it belonged to a former colleague, Chen Mo. He’d resigned last month, leaving quietly—no farewell party, and he hadn’t even had time to clear out his desk. The company said, “We’ll clean everything up once the new employee arrives,” so the desk remained in limbo, like an unfinished sentence.
Lin Wan wasn’t in a hurry to move in. Every day as she walked past, she’d casually straighten the pen holder that had been knocked askew or water the dusty pothos on the windowsill. One time, after working late, she noticed her mug had been washed, with a new sticky note tucked around the rim: “Your tea’s gone cold—remember to refill it.” The handwriting was unfamiliar, yet it carried a sense of warmth.
Later, she found out it was Old Zhou from the neighboring team. He’d once pulled all-nighters on projects with Chen Mo, and the two of them often ordered takeout from the same place late at night. On the day Chen Mo left, Old Zhou said nothing; he simply washed the mug and put it back in its place.
Lin Wan finally sat down at that workstation. She didn’t tear off the sunflower sticker, nor did she throw away the movie ticket stubs. She placed her keyboard on Chen Mo’s old mouse pad, and as she typed, her fingertips could still feel the frayed edges where the pad had worn thin.
One afternoon, sunlight slanted across the desk, falling on the sticky note. She suddenly realized that some departures aren’t about disappearing—they’re about staying in a different way. Just like this unclaimed workstation: it didn’t belong to anyone, yet so many people quietly remembered it.
Before leaving work, Lin Wan wrote a line in small handwriting on the back of the sticky note: “The weather is beautiful today—perfect for a fresh start.” Then she tucked it under the mug.
The next day, the sticky note was gone. In its place was a small packet of fresh tea and a printed note: “The tea is new; keep using the mug.”
She smiled, put the tea packet in her drawer, and placed it alongside the empty fountain pen and the expired movie ticket stub.
The city is vast, teeming with people coming and going. There are always some empty spots, and there are always those willing to leave a light on for them. Not every farewell requires a ceremony; some tenderness lies hidden in an unclaimed desk, quietly waiting for the next person to sit down and softly say:
“I’m here.”
