It was raining when I found the entrance to 1933 Old Millfun (Lao Chang Fang) – painting the city in grayscale and slowing Shanghai's modern tempo down.

Built in 1933 and masterfully incorporating Art Deco and Bauhaus elements, this former abattoir is the only remaining one of its kind. Once designed for the smooth transit of livestock to their end – spiral ramps wide enough for cattle to pass, labyrinthine corridors meant to muffle panic, skybridges connecting five floors of raw concrete and asymmetry – it's now a haven for art lovers, photographers, creatives, and coffee chasers alike.

I came because I'd heard this building was an example of Shanghai's evolving urban vision: a city willing to repurpose its ghosts instead of burying them – a rare instance where the past isn't paved over but bent into something new. They call it adaptive reuse, and I wanted to see that for myself. 

Little did I know this was a kind of place you don't just enter – you are absorbed by it.

The building is quiet inside. My steps echo a half-second too late, as though someone is following just out of sight. 

Little pools have formed under the spiral staircases, droplets tracing cracks in the old concrete. I look up from the central atrium – my vision blurred by the drizzle – to see bridges slicing through the air like veins. The air here is somehow wetter, softer, faintly scented with stone and metal.

I turn a corner. A woman in a red qipao is taking photos of a bare concrete wall. Her hair is perfectly styled, and the rain seems to bypass her entirely. I raise my phone to capture the moment, but when I lower it, she's gone. I hear no sound of retreating footsteps.

I check my phone. No signal. I move forward. The mural I passed earlier is here againbut this time, the eyes of the painted figure seem open. Or were they always? Did it even have eyes the first time?

The smell of coffee reaches me next – a warm, soothing presence. It leads me to the tiny open-front café nestled in between the walls and plants. Rain creeps in along the sills. A girl stirs her drink without sipping. A man watches the rain deep in thought as his phone keeps buzzing. I get a black coffee. Its scent mixes with petrichor, and for a long moment, that's all there is.

A corridor tilts ever so slightly onto an upward spiral. Liminal space, one flickering lamp emanating warm light. My fingers brush a wall etched faintly with numbers: "2A, E3," and a chill runs down my spine. 

Maybe I should leave... But there are whispers compelling me to stay. 

My feet carry me forward. The rain follows.

On the second floor, I pause to frame the latticework of bridges with my lens, when I hear the muted thrum of bass. Intrigued, I turn towards the sound, like a child to the Pied Piper. Past a doorless hallway, the air seems to thin. In the semi-dark, there's a door left ajar as an invitation. I peek inside. A few shadows are sitting in the semi-darkness, sipping something amber. No one looks up.

Mesmerized by the glowy condensation on their glasses, I suddenly wonder how many hidden corners like this live inside the building's underbelly. 

Another floor. A delivery guy in a yellow Meituan jacket rushes through the courtyard, like a bumblebee inserted from another reality, another tempo. He crosses from one shadowed hallway to another so quickly it looks like he'd emerged straight from the wall – and vanishes into another. 

Next, I stumble into an exhibition space: black and white projections on concrete. A few visitors drift quietly from frame to frame, and I'm not sure whether they are looking at art… or being watched by it.

I make it to the top floor and find myself on a little open-air terrace. In front of me, Shanghai sprawls far and wide, and I pause to get lungfuls of fresh air. Somewhere nearby, a leak drips rhythmically from pipe to puddle. The sound echoes.

Above, the iron sky. Below, a weightless cage where time has slowed into a sedated crawl. What time is it? It's time to leave. I turn around.

Ahead, lies a bridge. Apparently, that's how I came here, but… I have no recollection of it. 

At the end of the bridge stands a lone guard – so still I almost miss him at first. His face is lined, almost earthen, like it had been carved from the same stone as the building itself. His eyes meet mine briefly, expression unreadable. They carry a type of kindness reserved for those who are lost. 

His lips stretch into a silent smile as he motions the door behind him. Exit, it reads. I could swear there was no sign there a minute ago.

When I finally emerge, a little dazed, the rain has stopped. The sun has come out in that post-storm way where everything looks too bright. The city has resumed its rhythm, indifferent to my little disorientation.

I check my camera roll: twenty photos — concrete, light leaks, the back of a stairwell. But no woman in a red qipao. No mural with eyes — or without. Nothing strange, nothing out of place.

I came because someone told me it was beautiful. I stayed because it wouldn't let me go.

And when I left, I wasn't entirely sure that I had. 

 "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave," plays softly in my headphones.

Some buildings are visited.
Others are experienced.
This one remembers you...

*This article is part of China, Soft Focus – a slow journalism series that offers textured, human-centered glimpses into culture, history, and everyday life across China through measured pace and intimate storytelling.