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.
On a gloomy afternoon in April, I sat on a park bench, watching fallen leaves swirl in the wind. It was the 73rd day of my unemployment. I'd lost track of how many resumes I'd sent out, just like I'd lost track of how many pigeons were in the park.
Some strange things had been happening in this city lately. Manhole covers were starting to disappear inexplicably. The news said the police had launched an investigation, but so far, no clues had been found. The disappearance of the manhole covers seemed like some kind of metaphor, a sign that the city was collapsing, and I, too, was sinking along with it.