At six in the evening, the city was like a massive machine that had just been paused, still emitting a low hum.
Tucking his briefcase under his arm, Ian joined the rush-hour crowd heading toward the subway station. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and he clutched a crumpled convenience store receipt in his hand—for the instant noodles he’d just bought. This was the third week in a row that he’d taken this shortcut to his apartment at the exact same time.
The alley was narrow, lined on both sides by old red-brick apartment buildings whose plaster was peeling in places, revealing the dark bricks beneath. There was none of the bustling traffic found on the main roads here—only a few dim yellow streetlights that cast the pedestrians’ shadows, stretching them long one moment and short the next.
Ian stopped to tie his shoelaces.
Just as he bent down, a late-evening breeze swept through the alleyway.
Unlike the stifling heat of the day, laden with exhaust fumes, this breeze seemed to blow in from the distant coast, carrying a hint of damp coolness and the scent of laundry detergent drying on someone’s windowsill. The wind brushed past his ears, ruffling the stray strands of hair on his forehead, and gently swayed the cloth sign of the old bookstore at the entrance of the alley, making a soft fluttering sound.
Ian straightened up but didn’t walk away right away.
He suddenly realized it had been a long time since he’d taken the time to really look at this alley at this hour.
Usually, he kept his head down, staring at his phone screen or mentally sorting through the reports due tomorrow, the email from his landlord about a rent increase, and that greeting from his hometown that he’d been too afraid to reply to. His mind was filled with “musts” and “shoulds,” but there was no room for “now.”
The wind continued to blow, sweeping up a withered plane tree leaf at his feet. It spun once on the ground before settling quietly back down.
The alley was quiet, broken only by the occasional car horn in the distance—sounds that seemed muffled, as if filtered through a thick layer of water. Ian took a deep breath; the tight, aching sensation in his lungs seemed to be quietly eased by the breeze.
He looked up. A warm orange light shone from the third-floor window, and he could faintly hear the clatter of a spatula against a pan, along with the muffled chatter of children. It was someone else’s life, yet at that moment, it was like a lamp, illuminating the path at his feet.
Ian crumpled the wrinkled receipt into a ball and tossed it into a trash can by the roadside.
He set off again, and this time, he didn’t look at his phone.
The evening breeze was still at his back, pushing him along at a steady pace, like a silent old friend patting him on the shoulder—saying nothing, yet telling him:
The road is long, but tonight’s night sky is actually quite beautiful.
Ian rounded the final corner, and the entrance to his apartment building came into view. He pushed open the door, blocking the wind behind him, but he knew it was still out there in the alley, blowing on, waiting for the next person returning home late at night.
