It was a rare weekend off. Mike opened his laptop intending to find a movie, but his eyes kept drifting from the screen. Instead, he opened his browser and wandered aimlessly through the internet—chat rooms, forums, news sites, clicking on anything and everything. The songs of strangers, the posts of strangers, all felt livelier, more vivid than his own muted life.

He still phoned Amanda, but their conversations had narrowed to a handful of topics.

“Did you transfer the money? We’ve gone over budget again—medical bills for the baby.”

Love seemed to have been swept away by an invisible current, leaving only the heavy weight of duty. Mike began to dread the sound of his phone. Each ring no longer promised his child’s laughter but new troubles, more pressure.

He started working overtime as an excuse, using work itself as a form of escape.

One gray evening, a stray thought startled him: Would they be better off if I died?

The monotony felt endless.

Then, in the middle of that suffocating routine, an unexpected call arrived.

It was Alex—his childhood friend.

“Bro! How’ve you been? Is life down south treating you well?” Alex’s voice was bright with excitement.

“What can it be? Work, go home, repeat,” Mike answered with a weary smile.

“Don’t be so gloomy. Listen, I just met someone online—Lotus. She sings beautifully! You should come hear her sometime; she’ll cheer you up.”

“What do you mean? Is she pretty?” Mike asked, almost without thinking.

“Looks good. Can’t say about the figure. Got any ideas?” Alex teased.

“Get lost!” Mike laughed despite himself.

“I’m serious. If Lotus didn’t live in your city, I wouldn’t even be telling you this.”

“Really?” Mike’s voice held a flicker of curiosity.

“I already told her you’re a handsome, dashing gentleman.”

“Huh? No way.”

“Originally I wanted to keep her for myself, but you’re out there alone. So I’m introducing you.”

Mike hesitated, but curiosity won over exhaustion. That evening he followed Alex’s instructions and opened the page.

On the screen a room name glowed softly: [Harbor of the Soul] Music Chat Room.

He clicked. Immediately a female voice filled his headphones, singing Top of the World. The voice was soft and clear, like a warm breeze, sweeping away a whole day’s fatigue.

Mike leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, afraid to miss a note.

“Is this Lotus?” he wondered.

When the song ended, the same voice spoke on the mic, sweet and unhurried:

“Thank you, everyone. I have to go now; my child needs to sleep. I won’t hog the mic. Alex will host from now on.”

Mike sat stunned. A long-lost stir rose in his chest. He clicked into the chat-room forum, registered an account, and wrote the first essay of his life. He poured out everything—loneliness, anxiety, exhaustion, longing for success, even a vague yearning for something beautiful.

After posting, he felt strangely light, as if a weight had lifted. Watching his words drift into the vast digital sea felt like sending out a message in a bottle. Just as he was about to close the laptop, a notification appeared.

“Very well written. Delicate emotions. Solid writing.”

Lotus’s reply was only a few words, but it was like a warm current flowing into Mike’s heart. Someone had seen him. Someone had listened.

Every night at eight o’clock, Lotus hosted again. Mike began to look forward to the evenings, anticipating her familiar, gentle singing.

One night, after singing, Lotus chuckled softly:

“I’m a bit tired today, my throat isn’t feeling great. Please forgive me if I didn’t sing well.”

Her sweetness sparked an impulse in Mike—he wanted to comfort her. But the words felt too abrupt, so he stayed silent, instead posting a short note on the forum titled: “Thank you for today’s song, like a light in the darkness.”

The post drew many replies—some liked it, some joked: “Is the OP in love?”

Mike smiled. In love? Of course not.

He had a wife, a child. He just wanted a place to breathe, a space to relax.

That weekend, Amanda called, her voice heavy with fatigue:

“The child’s cough still isn’t better. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Mike gripped his phone, wanting to say something comforting, but words failed him. After a pause he said dryly, “I’ll come back at the end of the month.”

“Don’t waste money. A round trip equals a month’s formula for the baby,” Amanda replied, numb and helpless.

Mike looked out at the gray sky, sadness rising. Distance was draining them both, but life’s pressures held them immobile like invisible hands.

That night he logged on again. The chat room buzzed with jokes, song requests, small talk. With his headphones on, Mike felt he had entered a “second world.” Here he didn’t have to face elimination assessments, or explain why the formula money kept running out, or why he was never in the hospital line with his sick child.

Sometimes he even imagined Amanda beside him, listening to the same music, maybe smiling for once. But he shook his head. How could she? Her world was now fevers, bills, and the endless chatter of relatives.

Mike closed his laptop. For the first time, a clear yet vague longing formed: How wonderful it would be if someone could just listen, silently—no criticism, no demands, no blame.

In this virtual world, he could briefly be himself again—unburdened, unjudged, free to express his loneliness and desire. This “second world” was becoming his quiet refuge, his psychological lifeline.

Leaning back in his chair, he sighed. Outside, the streetlights flickered. In this cold city, he had found a little warmth of his own—even if it was only virtual. The neon glow, the voices of strangers—it was enough to keep him afloat against the torrent of reality.

That night, he slept later than usual. And in his dreams, he heard Lotus’s song, echoing softly in his ears.