The man was ironing in an ironing shop that was in an alley

Just when I thought this alley was nothing but a dense cluster of homes, I stumbled upon a lone shop tucked away in the depths of the passage. Given the setting, I expected it to be a small convenience store—a place selling cigarettes, snacks, or bottled drinks. But this was something else entirely.

The shop specialized in ironing.

Inside, a single man, who looked every bit the craftsman, stood over a pile of freshly washed clothes, carefully pressing them with an old, heavy iron. The scene felt almost anachronistic, a quiet dedication to a task that few would give a second thought to elsewhere.

If someone was ironing clothes, then surely there must be a place nearby where laundry was being washed. Yet, as I wandered through the maze-like alleys, I never did find it. Somewhere, hidden within these narrow streets, the washing had already taken place—but exactly where, I would never know.

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