During the morning rush hour, the subway was like a silent river, carrying countless weary faces through the city’s underground. Lin En was jostled by the crowd as he exited the transfer station, and it wasn’t until he sat down at his desk and instinctively reached into his coat pocket that his fingertips met nothing but emptiness.
His phone was gone.
He sighed but didn’t immediately borrow a colleague’s phone to report it lost. It was an old phone that should have been replaced long ago, with a faint crack along the edge of the screen, like a dried-up riverbed. No important bank cards were linked to it, nor were there any unread work emails—just a few old songs he couldn’t bear to delete and a handful of long-faded landscape photos.
After work, Lin En slowly walked back along the same route he’d taken that morning. The evening breeze was slightly cool, and the cafes along the street were lit up with warm yellow lights. He’d expected to feel anxious, but strangely, he instead felt a long-forgotten sense of lightness.
No notification sounds, no pop-up windows, and no “Got it” messages that demanded an immediate reply. For the first time on his commute, he listened to an entire song from start to finish, rather than skimming through three short videos at double speed.
Early the next morning, he tried calling his own number. The phone rang for a long time, and just as he was about to give up, someone picked up.
“Hello?” It was a slightly hoarse female voice, with the faint meow of a cat in the background.
“Hello,” Lin En tried to keep his voice calm. “I might have left my phone on the subway. I’m not sure if it’s…”
“Is that you?” she interrupted, her tone tinged with cautious confirmation. “I charged it last night and saw that the lock screen wallpaper was a photo of the beach. I thought the person who lost their phone must be really worried right now.”
Lin En paused for a moment. That photo was one he’d taken in Iceland three years ago. It had been a very windy day; the waves were crashing against the black rocks, and he’d stood there alone for a long time, feeling as though the world had fallen so quiet that all that remained was his own breathing.
“That’s me. Thank you,” he said.
“I dropped it off at the lost and found at the subway station,” the woman said softly. “I actually hesitated for a moment about whether to unlock it, but I figured there are some things whose owners are surely still waiting for them.”
After hanging up, Lin En stood where he was, watching the morning light gradually creep up the glass curtain wall across the street.
He didn’t go to retrieve the phone right away.
In this age where everything can be tracked, located, and summoned at any moment, the brief loss of contact with an old phone felt like a small, gentle surprise. It reminded him of that windy afternoon in Iceland, and of that voice in the dead of night—a voice willing to spare a stranger a little dignity and patience.
Sometimes things are lost so that you can remember the kind of peace you once had.
He smiled and turned to walk into the subway station. This time, he didn’t rush to catch the train that was about to close its doors; instead, he stood where he was and waited for the next one.
