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The Night Driver's Bridge
Old Sun drives nights and won't cross the river bridge between three and four — years ago a soaked man there asked 'do you go to the riverbed stop?' The bridge is where jumpers gather; now he takes the long way, steering troubled late-night fares toward lively places to win them one more dawn.
The Wreath Shop at Night
Xiao Zhao works nights at the wreath shop by the funeral home; at three a woman in a navy coat orders a wreath 'for my daughter' and carries it to the columbarium. She is the mother of a girl lost in a school-bus crash long ago, who ordered flowers daily in life and still comes after death.
The Winding Through the Wall
In Yong'an Li, a village-in-the-city, young Yan rents a thin-walled room. Each night at 3:33 a.m. a patient click-click-click of clock-winding seeps through from the sealed room next door — where Old Shen, a clock-mender, died years before. Yan, a hobbyist mender, leaves a working clock at the wall; by morning it is gone, yet a new tick-tock answers from within, and he learns to sleep.
Old Zhong's Watch
Old Zhong has mended watches at the lane mouth for thirty years — dead movements, cloudy glass, broken straps, made to tick again. Few wear mechanical watches now, yet the old still come, and so do grandsons sent by grandfathers. A dented watch from a late husband comes back to life under his hand, and an old woman hears her lost one in its tick. Old Zhong says the watch lives, so the person lives. A quiet tale of a vanishing craft, and the time kept by the hand.
The Old Cinema at Midnight
Lao He runs the midnight show and cleans a label-less reel that turns out to be news of a fire thirty years ago that killed seven patrons. On the night of spring's beginning the projector lights itself; the house is full of people in old dress, and after the show a fresh layer of seed shells lies on the floor.
The Night Ferry
Lao Zhou has poled the night ferry for twenty years and each night poles an empty boat toward the far bank once more. On the steps stands a boy in rain boots waiting for his dad; the village sank under the reservoir and the boy drowned years ago.
Old Zhou's Puppets
Old Zhou is the last puppeteer in these parts. With one lamp, a square of blue cloth and a few silk strings, his tung-oiled figures come alive. His masterpiece is The Broken Bridge; a wooden head cannot weep, yet the husky tune from his throat makes the crowd sniffle. He never married - the puppets keep him company. One rainy fair-night, with no audience, he played the whole play to an empty ground. He has kept company with wood his whole life, used to a bustle that needs no answer.
Old Chu the Pen Mender
Old Chu has mended fountain pens at the street corner for forty years — clogged feeds, split nibs, cracked barrels, made right again. Fewer and fewer write by hand now, yet the old still come, and so do grandsons sent by grandfathers. One white-haired man brings his late wife's worn Parker; Old Chu clears it and the man's hand trembles to hold it. Old Chu says, the pen lives, so the person lives. A quiet tale of a vanishing craft, and the word written by hand.