Tian Li Chun

I wake before dawn, when Shanghai, China, is still quiet. From my window, I see Pudong’s towers flickering like distant fires, but my world is far from that glittering skyline. I live in an old lane house in Hongkou, where the walls are damp in winter and summers press down thick. It’s enough. It’s mine.

I make tea, watching the leaves swirl before sinking. At 53, I appreciate small things. Mornings used to be different—waking in strange places, pockets heavy with money that wasn’t mine, blood on my knuckles. Those days are gone.

At the noodle shop down the street, Lao Wu nods as he slides me a bowl. He knows my past, but we don’t speak of it. The shop smells of broth and old oil. Outside, scooters buzz, old men argue over chess. Life moves forward.

I repair watches now. It started in prison—a guard noticed my steady hands and slipped me a broken Seiko. I fixed it. By the time I got out, I had a skill. My shop is small, tucked between a tailor and a cheap electronics store. People bring me broken things—old Omegas from fathers, fake Rolexes that need to keep up the illusion. Time has weight. I understand that now.

Some customers recognize me. Their eyes linger a second too long. Maybe they remember the man who once walked into their shop, smiling too wide, voice too calm. The man who explained how things worked in this city. I see the flicker of recognition, but they say nothing. Neither do I.

At night, I pass places where I once collected debts. I see younger men now, standing in alleyways, smoking, watching. They don’t know me. The city never stops making men like them.

Back home, I sit by the window with tea. Below, laughter, music, the clatter of mahjong tiles fill the night. Shanghai is alive, indifferent to my past. I breathe in the night air and let it go.