There's a noodle shop in Wan Chai with a strange rule: every evening at six, an old man comes in for a bowl of thin wonton noodles. No matter how old the money he pays with is, they accept it. They never give change, and no one is allowed to ask questions.
That money stopped being legal tender in 1989.
No one knows his name. No one knows who he's waiting for.
This is the first night of Tales of the Strange in Hong Kong.
From the funeral home to Shek Kip Mei, from Wedding Card Street to Kowloon Walled City, one hundred years of Hong Kong, one strange tale each night. The city keeps hurrying on, while they remain where they are.
The ghosts I write about don't bite. They just have things left unfinished, and people they never got to see.
The night is long. Let me tell you, slowly.
