On Wednesday afternoon, Lin En came home from work and found two packages at her doorstep.
She had only ordered one.
One was the coffee beans she’d ordered last week; the other had no sender’s information, just her name and address. She crouched down to take a closer look. The box wasn’t very big—about the size of a shoebox—and was neatly sealed with tape, as if it had been carefully packed.
She didn’t rush to open it. First, she washed her hands, brewed a cup of tea, and sat down on the couch before slowly peeling off the tape.
Inside was a dark blue cashmere scarf, neatly folded, along with a small card bearing just one sentence: “Winter is coming.”
There was no signature.
Lin En took out the scarf and ran her fingers over it—it was soft, like a cloud. She recognized the texture; her mother used to have one just like it, a gift from her father.
She examined it from every angle, but couldn’t recall anyone who might have given her a gift recently. A friend? A coworker? Or was it sent to the wrong address?
She tried looking up the tracking number; the system showed “Delivered,” but the sender’s information was blank. She checked her phone’s purchase history again, but there was no record of this order.
The next day, she wore the scarf to work. Her colleague Anna noticed it and said, “That’s such a beautiful color—it’s like the sea at midnight.”
Lin En smiled. “I don’t know who sent it either.”
“Could it be someone with a secret crush on you?” Anna asked with a wink.
Lin En shook her head. She was thirty-two, lived alone, and her life ran as regularly as clockwork. She had no romantic interests, nor any exes who would suddenly send her things.
She began checking the mailbox downstairs for new mail. She also kept an eye out for notifications from the delivery company, but there was nothing.
A week later, she received another package.
This time it was an old book with a slightly worn cover—an English edition of The Little Prince. On the title page was a line written in pencil: “To the one who still looks at the stars.”
Lin En sat by the window and flipped through a few pages. The book was old but well-preserved—no dog-eared pages, no markings. She suddenly remembered that she’d had one just like it when she was a child; her grandmother had given it to her. She’d lost it later when they moved.
She didn’t ask who had sent it.
Life went on. She went to work, bought groceries, and walked her dog as usual. Only occasionally, when she returned home in the evening, would she glance at her front door one extra time.
Sometimes, there would be an extra package waiting for her.
Sometimes it was a box of homemade cookies; other times, a postcard that read, “The sun is shining beautifully today.”
She never asked who sent them. Nor was she afraid.
It was as if someone had quietly placed a lamp in her life—one that wasn’t bright, but was always on.
She began to grow accustomed to this quiet companionship.
Until one day, she received the last package.
Inside was an old key and a note: “The door is in its usual place.”
Lin En stared at it for a long time. Then she smiled.
She didn’t go to open the door.
She put the key in a drawer, next to her copy of The Little Prince.
Some things don’t need an answer.
Just as winter will come and the sun will shine, some people simply pass by—leaving a little warmth behind is enough.
She brewed a cup of tea, sat by the window, and watched the streetlights below come on one by one.
Life was still the same as ever.
Only now, there was a little more of that indescribable tenderness.
