The rain in Sham Shui Po always carries a lingering musty smell.
After Fang Tian finished wiping the last table, he looked at the old-fashioned wall clock hanging on the wall. The hands had just skipped two in the morning. He was the only one left in the tea restaurant, and the ceiling fan was spinning feebly, making a "squeaking" sound. Mixed with the patter of rain outside the window, it became the only background sound in this late night.
