The chalk dust from the cutting table drifted into the warm air of the Wong family workshop. Bolts of fabric—cheap cotton, good wool, a roll of imported English tweed that cost more than a week of meals—leaned against the wall. The clicking of scissors, the whir of the old sewing machine, and the faint radio tunes from outside blended into a rhythm Alexander knew from childhood.
He sat on a wooden stool, pretending to work on his homework, but in truth his eyes were fixed on his father.
Wong Yat-sen bent over a half-completed suit jacket, measuring twice before trimming the cloth. His calloused hands moved with the skill of decades, but his face was marked by weariness. His business was steady but small. Customers trickled in, often haggling over every dollar, and if not for his mother's noodle stall, the family could barely survive Hong Kong's rising costs.
To Alexander, though, this tailor's shop was not just a humble family business. It was a testing ground—a laboratory in which to shape the first habits of profit.
"Papa," Alexander began softly, "I saw a sign today. A new shop in Mong Kok sells polyester rolls cheap. Maybe cheaper than cotton. Hard to tear, easy to wash."
His father glanced at him, brow furrowing. "Polyester? Bah. That's foreign junk. Serious men want cotton or wool."
Alexander smiled faintly, hiding the certainty inside him. He remembered, decades later, how polyester would dominate cheap clothing markets and flood the streets of Asia. Even the poorest wanted garments that lasted. His father, with his old-fashioned pride, could not see it yet. But Alexander had to plant the seed carefully.
"Still," he said lightly, "Ma always complains cotton stains too easily. Polyester is good for children. Cheap uniforms too, maybe?"
His father grunted, half-distracted by stitching. But Alexander saw it—the brief pause, the tiny crack in certainty. He had planted enough.
The bell above the shop door jingled. A middle-aged Chinese man entered, wearing thick spectacles. "Master Wong, can you make simple suits, not too expensive?"
His father smiled politely, gesturing to the rolls of wool and cotton. "Of course. We have quality fabrics."
But Alexander's eyes scanned the man's wallet as he opened it, the way his shoes were scuffed, the way his hands trembled with hesitation before choosing a cloth. This was not a man who could afford luxury, but one who needed something cheap that still looked respectable.
Alexander whispered under his breath: Polyester. Ready-made suits. Mass market.
He could almost see the line stretching from this one man to entire factories in the mainland, churning out uniforms and cut-price garments that would flood markets in the 1980s. In his last life, he had worn them himself without noticing. Now, he noticed everything.
"Papa," he said, trying not to sound too eager, "maybe you can make cheaper suits in small batches. Sell more, quickly. Not so fancy. Just good enough."
His father gave him a sideways look. "Why do you talk like a little boss? You don't understand business."
Alexander lowered his eyes, feigned embarrassment. "I just don't want you to work so hard for little money."
The old man's face softened, but only for a moment. "The world is the way it is. Tailors do their work, bankers do theirs. Hard work is all that matters."
Alexander bit back a laugh. He had lived long enough to know hard work alone never lifted tailors into tycoons. It was knowledge, timing, and the courage to take risks.
Still, he bowed his head, respecting the man's stubbornness. Inside, though, he was already sketching plans. He would show his father—not in words, but in results.
Back in his small room, Alexander turned to his journal. He wrote:
Lesson 1: Father thinks old-fashioned. Must prove profit with small examples before he trusts new ideas.
Lesson 2: Customers want cheap, durable. Polyester uniforms (schools, factories, government).
Lesson 3: Family business is foundation, but not future. Use shop as cover for experiments.
Then he added another line, one that excited him more than anything:
Hong Kong is a workshop of opportunity. I must learn how small shops become corporations.
He stared at the words until the ink seemed to burn in the page.
Lying beneath the thin blanket, he let the noise of the harbor lull him—the distant rattle of trams, the horns of ferries, the banter of sailors in alleyways. All of Hong Kong was alive, hungry, restless.
Somewhere out there, British bankers calculated loans, tycoons bargained for land, property developers stared at blueprints of towers not yet built. The city was ready to explode into wealth.
And here he was, a boy in a tailor's shop.
But that wouldn't last.
Alexander closed his eyes and whispered: "From scraps of cloth to crowns of steel… Papa won't believe it yet. But I'll show him."
And with that vow, sleep claimed him, though his mind still burned with visions of skyscrapers rising out of nothing.