The postwoman was delivering mail in the dimly lit alleyway

As I wandered through one of Shanghai’s old alleyways, a postman in a cap appeared from around the corner. A heavy leather mailbag hung from his shoulder, and in one hand he carried a thick bundle of newspapers and letters. Along the aging brick walls, a row of rusted mailboxes stood like relics—paint peeling, metal warped from years of rain and humidity. Delivering mail through this maze of narrow lanes must be no easy task. Yet the postman moved without hesitation, sliding letters into slots and tucking newspapers neatly into place. His efficiency was almost uncanny—like a living navigation system that no map could match.

In Shanghai, these alleyway communities are known as “lilong” (里弄)—a form of traditional urban housing that predates the skyscraper era. Two-story homes line narrow passages, their doors opening almost onto each other. Once the grand residences of wealthy merchants, they were gradually subdivided over the decades, becoming dense neighborhoods where dozens of families live side by side. Above the lanes, electrical wires crisscross the sky, and laundry hangs like makeshift banners. From somewhere deep inside, the scent of simmering food drifts through the air—a reminder that life here still boils, literally and figuratively, behind every doorway.

Such density of living, such intimacy of daily life, has all but vanished from modern Japanese cities. In the lilong, space is not simply physical—it is shared breath, shared sound, shared time. And perhaps that’s what the postman really delivers here: not just letters, but the quiet continuity of a life woven tightly together.