A Quiet Place

The cold air of the night wrapped tightly around Bruce Lee's thin, borrowed clothes as he walked the quiet backstreets of Ansan. With the Coast Guard far behind him and the city stretching endlessly ahead, each step felt heavy less from exhaustion, more from the uncertainty sinking into his bones.

Cars passed now and then, but no one paid him any mind. This part of the city was older buildings stained with time, neon signs flickering in tired cycles, their buzzing harmonizing with distant barking dogs and the hum of old streetlamps.

He passed small convenience stores, a shuttered bakery, and a string of dim karaoke bars. But what he was looking for wasn't light or noise.

He needed shelter.

Bruce turned down a quieter street lined with older homes, their fences crooked, flowerpots cracked from weather. As he walked, trying not to look suspicious, an old voice called out from a bench just outside a tiny courtyard.

"Boy," the voice rasped. "You look lost."

Bruce turned and saw an elderly man with silver hair and a wool coat, sipping from a paper cup. His eyes were sharp but kind.

"I am," Bruce said honestly, bowing slightly. "I don't have a place to stay."

The man studied him for a moment. "You don't sound like someone from around here."

"I'm… not."

The old man's eyes narrowed just a bit, then softened again. He gestured behind him to a small, two-story hanok-style house with a tiled roof and wooden beams.

"You hungry?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. Just need a place to rest."

The man nodded slowly, then stood with a bit of effort. "Well, I've got space. Spare room upstairs. I live alone these days… not many people come by anymore."

Bruce hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't ask for your life story, did I?" the man grunted. "Just come inside before the cold makes a statue out of you."

Grateful but cautious, Bruce followed.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of tea and old wood. It was small but warm. The hallway was narrow, the walls lined with photos of younger days students in white uniforms, martial arts tournaments, faded black belts hanging proudly beside certificates.

As they passed the living room, Bruce caught sight of it:

A Wing Chun wooden dummy, standing tall and worn in the corner, its limbs polished smooth by years of contact. Nearby sat a faded pair of boxing gloves, a few wooden staffs, and a small altar with incense, long burned out.

Bruce stopped.

The old man noticed. "Ah. You recognize that?"

"I trained with one just like it," Bruce said softly.

"Hmph. Haven't touched it in years. My joints can barely handle tying my shoes now." He looked Bruce up and down. "You a martial artist?"

Bruce didn't answer directly. "I was."

The man didn't press. He simply pointed upstairs. "Room's to the left. The futon's old but clean. Bathroom's down the hall."

Bruce bowed again. "Thank you."

That night, in a quiet room smelling faintly of dust and cedar, Bruce lay on the futon and stared at the ceiling. The sounds of the city were distant, replaced by the occasional creak of the house settling and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside.

Downstairs, that wooden dummy called to something deep inside him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the dragon slept.

End.