The Final Point

Old Wang, or as the neighbors more familiarly called him, "Master Wang," ran a tiny watch repair shop. It felt like an old-fashioned pocket watch forgotten in the city's breast pocket, its hands lazy, yet stubbornly recording the passage of time. Squeezed between a noisy Mala Tang stall and a clothing store perpetually having a clearance sale, the shop seemed out of place, like an old scholar insisting on writing letters in archaic script.

Today, the air inside the shop was thicker than usual, carrying a mixed scent of turpentine, metal filings, and scorching anticipation. The fourteen-inch color TV on the wall, its screen persistently battling snowy interference, was broadcasting a table tennis final that held the hearts of millions. It wasn't the World Cup or the Olympics, just an ordinary open tournament, but for Old Wang, anything involving the "National Team" was more important than fixing a Patek Philippe.

Old Wang hunched over, close to the TV, his reading glasses nearly brushing the screen. His fingers, the same dexterous hands that could steadily place a hair-thin balance spring back into position, trembled slightly with nervousness. The match had reached the deciding game, the score as tight as the trickiest old watch movement he'd ever tackled. Every swing, every spin, every bizarre arc drawn by the small white ball seemed to bounce on his very heartstrings.

"Ai, that backhand..." Old Wang muttered at the screen, as if his commentary could pierce the airwaves and reach the distant arena. He had played table tennis in his youth, a skilled amateur at the factory, though he'd never witnessed the national team's caliber firsthand. But that passion, like a brand seared into his bones, had never faded. For decades, watch repair was his livelihood; watching the national team win was his spiritual sustenance. A win could cheer him up for days, making his work feel smoother. A loss, especially an unexpected one like this, would leave him feeling soulless, the watch parts blurring before his eyes into malevolent dots.

On the TV, the commentator's voice was hoarse, the pace as frantic as an out-of-control second hand. The final point. A tricky serve from the opponent. Our young player's return hit the net.

Lost.

On the screen, the opponent celebrated wildly, framed by the coach's helpless shake of the head and the young player's bowed head. Old Wang froze, as if his spine had been removed, his body instantly collapsing onto the greasy wooden stool. Inside the shop, only the dozens of clocks hanging on the wall ticked on, relentlessly, at their various speeds—drip, drip, drip—as if mocking the frozen moment.

An indescribable emptiness, like fine dust, quickly filled the small space. It wasn't simple disappointment, but more like a collapse of faith. Decades of smooth sailing, of invincibility, how could they... lose it? This championship shouldn't have been lost. Old Wang felt that what was lost wasn't just a gold medal, but some kind of order, a cornerstone he relied upon to confirm the world was still stable and reliable.

He picked up an alarm clock waiting for repair, a cheap plastic one that always ran half a beat slow. He skillfully opened the back cover, but the tweezers couldn't grip the tiny gear. His hands trembled violently, his vision filled with the image of that white ball, hitting the net tape at an unbelievable angle. That moment stretched infinitely, magnified, becoming an eternal labyrinth trapping him inside.

He began to wonder, what if the ball had grazed the net and gone over? What if the young player had taken one more step forward? What if... Countless possibilities, like branches of parallel universes, proliferated wildly in his mind. Every "what if" led to a world where the national team still won, a familiar, orderly world. But reality, like a brusque gatekeeper, blocked him at this single, depressing entrance.

Time itself seemed to lose meaning for him. The monotonous ticking of the clocks merged into a chaotic noise, no longer a measure of time but an echo of failure, proof that the cosmic order had been disrupted. He even felt that his craft, this attempt to impose precise order onto chaotic time, was inherently futile. Just like that final point – no matter how perfect you were before, how close to victory, one small mistake could overturn everything.

An unknown amount of time passed, perhaps an hour, perhaps only fifteen minutes—time had warped in Old Wang's perception—when the shop's creaky glass door was pushed open.

A boy in a school uniform peeked in, his face flushed from exercise, tinged with a little shyness. "Grandpa Wang," he asked cautiously, "my watch... did you fix it? I need it for... for my physics exam tomorrow."

Old Wang looked up, his gaze still somewhat unfocused. He saw the boy, whose eyes were clear, bright, full of anticipation for the future, without a trace of the gloom cast by a lost match.

"Oh, it's Little Liang," Old Wang slowly stood up, picked up a repaired digital watch from the workbench, and handed it to the boy. "Here, changed the battery, calibrated it, perfect time."

"Thanks, Grandpa Wang!" The boy took the watch, treasuring it as he put it on his wrist, a bright smile spreading across his face. "Great! Now the exam will definitely be fine!" He paid, then added, "Grandpa Wang, did you watch that match just now? That Brazilian player was really good! Especially that last serve, so tricky!"

Old Wang was stunned. He had assumed the whole world must be sharing his grief over the "lost championship." But this kid, he saw the opponent's brilliance, saw the match itself, rather than just fixating on the result.

The boy didn't notice Old Wang's strange reaction. "Bye, Grandpa Wang!" he said cheerfully, then ran off like a gust of wind, leaving the wind chime on the door tinkling merrily.

Something seemed to quietly shift within the shop. The ticking of the clocks seemed to regain its original rhythm, no longer so grating. Old Wang picked up the plastic alarm clock again. This time, the tweezers firmly grasped the tiny gear, and with a gentle placement, it fit perfectly into its slot.

He suddenly understood. That final point, lost was lost. The universe hadn't collapsed because of it; time continued to flow. People's lives, like the clocks in his shop—some fast, some slow, some precise, some needing repair—were all moving forward. The lost championship was perhaps just a pause in the grand narrative, a footnote, maybe even a new beginning. And he, a watchmaker, wasn't his world also composed of these countless "moments" needing repair, needing calibration?

Old Wang sat back down at his workbench, picked up his magnifying glass, and leaned closer to the alarm clock's movement. Outside, the city's hustle and bustle continued, the aroma of Mala Tang drifted in, and the loudspeaker from the clothing store next door tirelessly announced "Last three days." Life, this drama woven from countless chances and necessities, victories and defeats, continued to unfold.

His work in hand suddenly became incredibly clear. Perhaps true victory wasn't about never losing, but about being able, after every fall, to calmly, intently, fix the next broken watch, align with the next moment to grasp. Like that little ball, wherever it landed, the next point would always begin again.

A barely perceptible smile touched the corners of Old Wang's lips. In that smile, there was relief, understanding, and a little bit of the shrewdness of an old man who had seen through the labyrinth of time.