Shen Chuan
Night had fallen. Shen Chuan climbed the old, worn stairs with heavy, dragging steps. The sound of the key turning in the lock was especially clear in the silent hallway. He pushed the door open, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent filled the fifteen-square-meter partitioned room. He didn't turn on the main light; he only switched on the warm-yellow bedside lamp and hung his dust-covered jacket behind the door. He washed his face, water droplets sliding down his wheat-colored jaw. He sat on the edge of the bed, lowered his head to look at the old red string on his left wrist, and stayed silent for a long time. The neon lights outside the window filtered through the thin curtain, casting blurred shadows on the wall. He let out a soft sigh, picked up his phone, hesitated over whether to send his mother a message—and finally put it down.
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