Li Wei stormed through the rain like it had insulted him personally. His coat clung to his back, heavy with cold and regret, and by the time he reached the basement door, he was dripping and furious. He slammed it behind him and stood in the silence, panting like a man who had just run from himself.
His eyes went straight to the typewriter.
It sat on the shelf in the corner, collecting dust more relic than tool now. He hadn't touched it in years, not since the PC started its slow death march. But once, it had been his everything. The clacking keys, the smell of ink ribbon, the stubborn weight of each page. Back when writing had been sacred.
Now, it was just worth money.
He yanked it off the shelf, barely cradling it, and walked it two blocks through puddles to a dim pawn shop that smelled like rust and debt.
The man behind the counter eyed the machine, then eyed him.
"This thing's old," the pawnbroker muttered, running a finger over the keys. "Thirty bucks. That's generous."
Li Wei didn't argue. Didn't flinch. "Fine."
"You sure?" the man asked, almost cautious. "You look like someone selling history."
Li Wei smiled bitterly. "History's not paying rent."
The cash was damp in his fist before he even left the shop.
He bought three things: a bottle of cheap rice wine, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and a coil of nylon rope from a corner store where the cashier didn't look him in the eye.
The walk back was quieter this time. Not calm just hollow.
He stepped into the basement like someone entering a final confession. The room felt different. Still moldy, still cramped, but now… prepared. Like a stage set for something irreversible.
He lit a cigarette. Cracked open the bottle. Took one long drink and set it next to the blinking screen of his old, wheezing computer.
The manuscript was waiting.
And he sat.
Not to check emails. Not to beg the world for another chance.
Just to write.