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.