The Shadow of Walking Smoke

Old Fang, that's what people called him, though he didn't feel quite that old. It was just that his back was a little stooped, like a carrying pole long bent under the weight of life. He had drifted like a speck of dust for decades in this enormous, roaring city—Shanghai. The city was a forest of steel, waterfalls of glass, a phantasmagorical river of neon lights. And Old Fang was merely a shadow huddled in the cramped lanes of the old city quarters, a whole world away from the grand narratives of glamour and success.

His world was small, small enough to encompass only the flagstone path to the small park, small enough for just the cheap cigarette burning in his hand. Cigarettes were his silent friends, his only weapon against boundless loneliness. Every dusk, as the giant city machine took a slight breather, he would light a cigarette and stroll slowly. Wreathed in smoke, his stooped figure seemed imbued with a fleeting dignity, a freedom that drifted outside the bounds of order. The smoke was his exhaled sigh, his unspoken words, a fragile veil between him and this indifferent world. He smoked as he walked, the cigarette tip glowing and fading, like his precarious life, like the unseen souls on the city's fringes, flickering with a faint light. People called them the "Wandering Smokers" (游烟族), a term with slightly derogatory yet somehow roguish connotations.

However, the city, this giant beast, sought to regulate even the trajectory of dust. An invisible net, cast quietly in the name of "civilization" and "health." First, small blurbs in the newspapers, then official notices on the community bulletin boards, and finally, patrol officers on street corners, clad in uniforms, their eyes sharp as falcons. "No smoking while walking"—these words, like cold iron caltrops, pierced Old Fang's heart.

At first, Old Fang tried to comply. He tried finishing a cigarette on a park bench before walking, but it didn't feel right. Smoking needed the flowing air and the rhythm of walking to feel right. Fixed in one spot, like a prisoner awaiting judgment, even the taste of the smoke turned bitter. He tried smoking in the designated smoking areas, those small squares marked out like prison cells, usually set up next to trash cans or in some inconspicuous corner. People smoked there hurriedly, awkwardly, their eyes darting about as if conducting some illicit transaction. Old Fang felt a humiliation, a sense of shame, of being ostracized and marked. It wasn't enjoyment; it was fulfilling an obligation.

So, one gloomy afternoon, the air as damp as a cloth that couldn't be wrung dry, Old Fang, as if compelled by some unseen force, lit a cigarette while walking again. He walked very slowly, keeping close to the walls like a seasoned fugitive. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, bringing a momentary numbness and solace. His cloudy eyes scanned his surroundings warily; every passerby could be a potential informant, every window might hide watching eyes. This was no longer enjoyment, but a gamble against being caught by the ever-present "Order."

Suddenly, a voice sounded behind him, not loud, but carrying an unquestionable authority: "Comrade, you can't smoke while walking here."

Old Fang froze, as if doused with ice water. He turned slowly to see a young man in a blue vest, wearing a red armband. His face was expressionless, showing only the indifference of routine duty. The young man pointed to a sign pasted on a nearby wall.

Old Fang opened his mouth, wanting to say something. Wanted to say he'd smoked all his life, that this cigarette was his only solace, that surely this huge city could tolerate a wisp of walking smoke? But the words caught in his throat, turning into a dry cough. He saw in the young man's eyes the pure certainty of a "rule enforcer"—it was a gaze that held no understanding, nor needed any. In the face of the rules, he, Old Fang, was merely an error code needing correction.

He silently stubbed out the cigarette. The last ember, like the final spark of defiance in his heart, died out unwillingly. He carefully dropped the butt into a roadside trash can, even giving a slight bow, as if repenting for his "crime." The young man nodded in satisfaction and turned towards his next "target."

Old Fang stood rooted to the spot for a long time. The traffic still roared, the crowds still hurried, the city continued its gleaming operations as if nothing had happened. But he felt that something tangible, something real, had been drained from his life. Not nicotine, but something more vital, something about the small, resilient dignity of being human.

His back stooped, he slowly walked back. The light in the lane grew dimmer. He felt an unprecedented exhaustion and emptiness. Half a pack of cigarettes remained in his pocket, but he no longer wanted to smoke. The cigarettes had lost their taste, lost that aura of freedom found in wandering. They were no longer a comfort, but a mark—a reminder of his regulation, his expulsion.

Back in his dim little room, Old Fang sat on the creaking wooden bed, gazing at the narrow sliver of sky outside his window. The sky was gray, just like his mood. He suddenly remembered many years ago, when he was a young man, sweating in the factory. During breaks, he'd squat in a corner with his workmates, smoking and chatting amidst the swirling smoke. Back then, the sky seemed blue.

Now, the city was becoming more "civilized." Perhaps the air would be cleaner, the streets more orderly. But Old Fang felt that this "civilization" sometimes felt like a well-tailored but cold, hard suit of armor, fitted onto the city and onto everyone's heart. Behind the crackdown on the "Wandering Smokers," behind the regulation of such minutiae, how many individuals like him were silently struggling against the tide of the times? Were their humble pleasures, their last vestiges of solace, destined to be crushed and forgotten in the grand narrative of "progress"?

Old Fang sighed, a sigh heavier than any smoke. He didn't know how, without that wisp of smoke accompanying his walks, he would endure the long, lonely dusks. He only felt a profound sadness, like the dampness that perpetually lingered in the alley, silently seeping into his very bones. The city's shadows fell not only between the skyscrapers but also deep into the souls of every insignificant individual. And the shadow of walking smoke was perhaps just one of the most inconspicuous, yet most heart-wrenching, among them.