Chapter 756 - 637: Youth of the Old District
Chapter 756: Chapter 637: Youth of the Old District
Eric’s alarm clock rang at five in the morning.
He turned over, habitually reached out to turn off the worn mechanical alarm clock by the bed, then lay in bed for two minutes, and reluctantly got up when the second alarm rang.
Outside the window, the sky was gray, and it was hard to tell if it was morning mist or black smoke from the factory chimneys.
The mornings in Wudu are always like this, never being able to tell where the sun is.
He lived on the third floor of this old apartment building, in a single room less than ten square meters.
A bed, a table, a wardrobe — that’s all his belongings.
The window faced the narrow cobblestone street below, and the pavement was always wet; it was hard to tell if it was rainwater or waste water from some factory.
Eric took ten minutes to wash and dress, then reached for two bills from the tin can on the table and stuffed them into his pocket.
The bakery downstairs sold day-old bread every morning, half price, hard enough to kill someone, but soaking it in hot water could barely fill the stomach.
As he walked down the stairs, he habitually glanced out the window.
Then he froze.
Because the street view he’d thought would never change, not even in a trance, had changed.
Across the street downstairs, three door numbers away, stood a dilapidated house that had been empty for at least seventeen or eighteen years.
The plaster on the outer wall had fallen off mostly, revealing the dark bricks inside, two of the second floor windows were broken and nailed shut, and the paint on the door was so mottled it looked like it had a skin disease.
Eric had seen this house since childhood and had never seen anyone live there; the neighbors said the house was haunted.
Of course, in this world, "haunted" isn’t just a metaphor.
Because of this, no one had rented the house since its previous owner died tragically.
But now, the door of the house was open.
Not the kind of "open" that’s pried open or blown open by the wind, after all, anything slightly valuable in that broken house was long removed.
The door was neatly and orderly opened.
A wooden sign hung on the door frame, with a few words carved on it, the handwriting neat but not particularly beautiful.
Eric squinted for a while, before his slightly astigmatic eyes made out the words:
"Old Bookstore."
Eric raised an eyebrow.
Old Bookstore.
In Wudu, in the oldest, most chaotic, and poorest district of the city, someone had opened an old bookstore?
Though he wasn’t part of the underworld, a child growing up in such a place would understand the necessary things.
"Old Bookstore" in this context, like "grocery store," "pawnshop," "repair shop," is very likely a front for something else.
This "Old Bookstore" likely doesn’t sell books but something else.
Such as forbidden genetic drugs, mysterious materials from the black market, or even underground spiritualist intermediary services.
However, compared to those dangerous shops, the most common setup in such a situation is a black clinic.
Those unlicensed doctors... or those who claim to be doctors operate under the cover of such shops to treat those who dare not go to official hospitals.
The patients are mostly small-time characters from the black market, fugitive spiritualists, or simply impoverished residents who can’t afford official hospital fees.
The quality of medical skill is pure luck, a death occurs frequently, and the bodies are dumped into the sewers under Wudu, never to be found.
But this morning, waking up late, Eric merely glanced at it and didn’t worry much, hurrying to get to work.
Until evening, dragging his exhausted body, Eric returned from the factory, looked at the sky, and couldn’t help but curse aloud several times at the manager, who was as fat as a pig.
Factory work got busier every day, but the pay didn’t increase, nor did the off-work time; it got later every day.
If not for the strange existence at night, that pig would surely have made everyone work late into the night.
Cursing in his heart, climbing the stairs, Eric instinctively looked at that old bookstore again.
Unlike this morning, the store now appeared much "cleaner," the broken windows and peeling walls had been repaired, and the door was repainted.
Eric hesitated at the stairway landing.
Unable to resist his curiosity, Eric walked down the stairs, crossed the wet stone road, and stopped at the doorway of that house.
Inside the door was a small room, about twenty square meters.
Several rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, scattered with old books, their spines severely worn, clearly aged.
In the room’s center was a table, with an oil lamp on it, and a stack of newspapers beside it.
Behind the table was a rocking chair.
A person lay in the rocking chair.
A young man, looking about Eric’s age, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six.
Ordinary in appearance, dark hair, light gray eyes, wearing a dark coat washed to a faded color, his feet in old, somewhat muddy leather boots.
He held a book in his hand, leisurely flipping through it.
Seeing Eric standing at the door, he raised his head, exposing an expression that was neither warm nor cold but calm.
"Come in, feel free to look around," he said.
His voice was soft, with an air of casual indifference.
Eric walked into the store, pretending to browse around the bookshelves.
The books were real... this was unexpected for him.