The Man Who Returned

Under the glowing lights of the Shanghai Bund, three young men sat slouched on a bench, watching the river shimmer in silence. Wei, Jun, and Lin—all ambitious investors in their twenties—had just watched their fortunes disappear in a brutal market crash.

“We followed every trend,” Wei muttered.

“Held on like they told us,” Jun sighed.
“And still lost everything,” Lin said, staring at his shoes.

Just then, an elderly man shuffled toward them. He wore an old-fashioned brown overcoat with frayed cuffs, a woolen flat cap, and round spectacles that seemed older than any of them. His leather shoes were worn, and he leaned on a carved wooden cane. He looked like someone misplaced from a forgotten decade.

“You look like you’ve seen a storm,” he said gently, pausing before them.

They glanced at each other, puzzled.

“I once stood where you are,” the man continued, “except it was thirty years ago. I had made a fortune before thirty, lost it before thirty-one.”

“What did you do then?” Lin asked.

“I vanished,” he said with a distant smile. “Traded the noise of the stock floor for the silence of Himalayan caves. I stopped chasing gain, and started listening.”

He looked each of them in the eye. “You’ve been running forward with no map. That’s how most people fall.”

He opened a weathered satchel and pulled out a small, worn wooden bead. Placing it in Lin’s hand, he said, “Keep this. When the noise gets loud again, hold it and breathe. Remember—to know the road ahead, ask those coming back.”

Without another word, he tipped his cap and strolled off into the Shanghai mist, disappearing as quietly as he came.

The city buzzed on, but the young men sat in silence, feeling something stir inside. That night, they began to ask deeper questions—not about stocks, but about purpose.