Old Wang, or perhaps, let's just call him Old Wang for now, because his story could happen to any ordinary person named Wang, Li, or Zhang. He had lived most of his life in Shanghai, this enormous, ever-changing city, and possessed a habit as natural as breathing: smoking while walking.
Li Cheng, an ordinary clerk in the city of Beiping, squeezed onto the clanging trams every day, traveling from the pigeon coop in the south of the city to the concrete buildings in the north, earning just enough money to get by. Life was like a donkey pulling a millstone, going around in circles, with no end in sight.
On this day, Li Cheng returned home from work, as usual, exhausted, like a toad that had been drained of its strength. He entered the house, turned on the light, and the bright white bulb illuminated the four white walls, empty and desolate, revealing a sense of shabbiness. He took off his shoes, plopped down on the hard wooden bed, and stared blankly at the wall.