See a really unremarkable building as you stroll down Lai Chi Kok Road. blue doors flashing fluorescent lights. On Monday, dim lunch is boring. But walk across the small glass door to the short‑term storage units Lai Chi Kok and—bam!—you find a treasure box for packrats, storytellers, and snoops.
First thing you find is stillness. Apart from the odd echo your footsteps produce on tiled flooring and the hum of ancient air conditioning. Sneakers from twenty years ago stalk one corridor. Still next corridor smells like old paperbacks after rain. A few lockers are spotless, piled like medical gloves and precisely labelled. others as well Christmas lights and graduation robes tumbleweeds of twisted mess. Step too near and you can trip over a wedding present never seen on the altar.
One exists the “guy with too many skateboards”. boards with broken grip tape, some from the 1990s. Tucked inside for nostalgia, a faded Tony Hawk poster Next door is a mound of cartoon-covered luggage piled high with baby clothing, shoes small enough to fit a cat, and more soft toys than a carnival prize display. Secret time capsules. Joy hidden beneath zipper packs.
Decluttering is discussed by some as a Zen habit. These corridors are living evidence; every locker represents a struggle between “I might need this later” and “Why can’t I let go?” Even a woman who brings lunch every Saturday opens her locker and spends an hour reading old diaries. She claims the calm helps her remember. And forget.
I would not want to start on the collectibles. A man in his retirement age collects Manga books—whole series, wrapped in old plastic, pages deteriorating, spines broken. “My grandkids laughed. Nonetheless, they will thank me! Once, a perfect Chewbacca mask poked from a ” misc. marked box.” I leave if that mask starts to speak.
Further treasure? Boxes filled with vinyl LPs, lucky cat figurines, typewriters, broken electric fans, and foreign slogan-covered suitcases. One end of the corridor smells like incense and the other like skunky beer on a wet day.
Let’s name him Ken, a facility worker claims the strange things are obvious. “We once came upon a refrigerator loaded with rubber ducks.” Ken shrugs and starts to grin. People trust these lockers containing secrets they would not even share with their mothers.
Perhaps that is the secret charm. These pass-throughs serve more than only keeping souvenirs. For those who cannot completely let go, they are hiding feelings, stories, and the final slice of hope. Should you ever misplace your keys to the past, investigate the blue door under the flickering light; Lai Chi Kok’s storage labyrinth has most likely seen it all.