Given the location, worshippers returning from the shrine and tourists passed by, yet the man paid them no mind, his gaze fixed on a single point in the street

Near Longshan Temple, in one corner of Taipei’s older quarters, a man stood by the street. His hands were buried in his pockets as he slowly exhaled cigarette smoke. Judging from his white dress shirt and neatly knotted tie, he was probably an office worker of some sort, though the way he held himself—upright, deliberate—gave him the air of a schoolteacher instead. People returning from worship and clusters of tourists passed by, but he paid them no attention, fixing his gaze on a single, indeterminate point along the road.

This neighborhood has long thrived as the temple town of Longshan Temple, a place where commerce and faith have coexisted for generations. Street stalls line the nearby alleys, and depending on the hour, the scent of burning incense mingles comfortably with the smell of hot oil from frying food. A cursory glance at Taiwan’s urban history reveals that temple precincts were once gathering places, hubs for trade and the exchange of news. Perhaps the man’s presence here was not entirely accidental.

Even so, his expression was anything but cheerful. He may have stepped outside during a break, hoping for a brief change of air, but whatever he carried with him did not seem to lift so easily. I am no expert on the lives of Taiwanese office workers, but one often hears that overtime is common in Taipei’s business districts. Maybe he had just emerged from a tense meeting, or had been handed a set of vague instructions by a superior. In any case, if his troubles could be held at bay by a single cigarette, they were probably still manageable.

Regardless of what occupied his thoughts, the street continued to function with admirable indifference. Shoppers walked past with plastic bags swinging at their sides, scooters slipped neatly through narrow gaps, and time moved forward at its usual, impartial pace.