There’s a repair shop on Xingfuli Lane. The owner, Zhou Ye, is thirty-one and has a five-year-old daughter.
He’s a smooth talker who loves to laugh. When he fixes your appliances, he can chat you into a better mood, too. The old lady Qin next door complains about his noise every day, yet always makes an extra bowl of soy milk. Li, the programmer, had been cooped up at home for three months before Zhou Ye practically dragged him outside to get some sun. “Parts rust when they’re not used. People are the same.”
The whole street knows he has a knack for making the best of things: no matter how awful something is, he can turn it into a funny story.
No one has ever seen him cry.
The truth is, he always carries a crumpled photo in his pocket. The woman in it is smiling brightly. She was his wife, and she passed away three years ago.
She said their child should grow up somewhere full of the warmth of everyday life.
So he put down roots here, fixing appliances and mending hearts. As he went along, he brought together a group of people, each with their own troubles, and made them into a family.
It’s a little noisy, but it’s nice.
After all, it wouldn’t feel right if this lively lane were quiet.
