Parcel Maze

Lao Wang felt like he was about to drown in these cardboard boxes.

He pedaled his creaking electric tricycle, like a mobile fortress, its cargo bay piled high with packages large and small, nearly overflowing. This was a common sight in a city hurtling forward in the e-commerce era. He was a capillary at the end of this vast logistics machine, responsible for turning screen clicks into tangible reality. But today, something wasn't right.

On today's delivery list, one address repeated itself like a broken record, the recipient the same vague name – "Mr. Lin." A full one hundred packages. One hundred. Lao Wang counted them three times at the sorting station, sweat and doubt soaking his uniform together. What kind of purchasing power was this? Or rather, what kind of life required a hundred packages to arrive simultaneously?

He recalled the analysts on financial channels discussing consumption upgrades, internal circulation, the infinite possibilities of the digital economy. They painted a picture of prosperity with smooth data and beautiful charts, as if everyone was raising a glass at this feast. But what Lao Wang saw were his own calloused hands, the battery that was never quite enough, the cold urging of algorithms, and now, these one hundred heavy mysteries pointing to the same address.

The target residential complex was newly built and high-end, its glass curtain walls reflecting the sunlight with an indifferent gleam. The young man in the security booth glanced up at the "mountain" on his vehicle and waved him through. Everything here seemed orderly, yet exuded a sense of detachment. Lao Wang pushed his special delivery cart and began his task, like an ant moving house.

First trip, ten packages. The elevator ascended quietly, the numbers changing slowly. Ding dong. 18th floor. The corridor was carpeted, absorbing all sound. He found the apartment number and knocked lightly. No response from within. He knocked again, still dead silence. Following procedure, he dialed the recipient's phone number. Beep… beep… beep… Busy signal.

He put down the packages, took a photo, and sent the delivery notification. Lao Wang felt a little creeped out. This didn't seem like a shopaholic, more like... a ritual? Or a system error he didn't understand? He shook his head, dispelling these far-fetched ideas, turned around, went downstairs, and continued hauling.

Second trip, third trip… tenth trip.

In the corridor, before that tightly shut door, the packages piled higher and higher, like a rapidly rising small mountain, or perhaps, a paper tombstone. With each trip upstairs, Lao Wang felt like Sisyphus, pushing this boulder condensed from consumerism. But Sisyphus knew his fate; Lao Wang was clueless about the logic behind this absurd drama.

He started noticing the packages. They varied in size, but the sender labels on many boxes were repetitive, coming from different shops on several major e-commerce platforms. They stacked silently together, like a troop of faceless soldiers awaiting inspection.

During this time, a neighbor opened their door, saw the strange sight, their face showing surprise mixed with a hint of caution, and hurried past as if afraid of getting involved in trouble. Lao Wang tried to strike up a conversation, but the person just waved him off and slipped into the elevator. It seemed people were also separated by an invisible layer of packages.

By the time the ninetieth package was moved, Lao Wang was soaked through, not from exhaustion, but from an inexplicable panic. This was too abnormal. He'd seen hoarders before, but a hundred packages, arriving silently, the recipient seemingly vanished. What was behind this? Debt? Smuggling? Or something even stranger… He dared not think further.

He thought about those discussions on modern alienation. We live in a digitally constructed world where shopping, socializing, even emotions, are transmitted through screens and code. Our relationship with objects becomes both intimate and distant. We possess more and more, yet feel increasingly empty. These hundred packages felt like a huge metaphor, pointing to a void filled with material desire but absent of soul.

When he moved the last ten packages to the 18th floor, the "parcel mountain" was truly a spectacular sight, almost blocking half the corridor. He leaned against the cold wall, catching his breath, looking at the scene before him, a Kafkaesque sense of absurdity gripping him. He, an ordinary delivery driver, was now standing at the entrance of a great puzzle, and the puzzle itself might be meaningless, just an accidental, unsettling noise in the system's operation.

He took out his phone, his finger hovering over the emergency call button. Would doing this be making a big deal out of nothing? Would it affect his rating? In an industry reliant on evaluation systems, any mistake could lead to trouble. But his conscience, or perhaps a more primal unease about disrupted order, finally made him press it.

"Hello, 110? I want to report something. Yes, I'm a delivery driver... There's an address that received a hundred packages, but I can't reach the person, I think it's a bit strange..."

On the other end of the line were formulaic questions and note-taking. Lao Wang answered mechanically, his eyes fixed on the closed door. He imagined the scene behind it: a solitary person surrounded by possessions? Or an empty room, with only the system automatically placing orders?

The police arrived quickly. Two young officers, seeing the mountain of packages before them, were also taken aback for a moment. They knocked on the door, much louder than Lao Wang, carrying the weight of authority. The door remained silent.

They contacted property management and summoned a locksmith. After following a series of procedures, the door was finally opened.

Lao Wang craned his neck, along with several neighbors who had gathered upon hearing the commotion, nervously peering towards the doorway.

The apartment was excessively tidy, like a model home that had never been lived in. In the center of the living room sat a small table, and on the table, a mobile phone constantly flashing notification lights, its screen filled with dense push notifications from shopping apps. Other than that, it was empty.

No "Mr. Lin."

The police carefully inspected the room, finding nothing unusual except for the hundred unopened packages and the phone continuously receiving information. One officer picked up the phone, frowned, seemingly checking the purchase history.

"Could be... some kind of 'brushing' or review activity?" one officer murmured to his colleague.

"A hundred packages? The cost is too high," the other replied.

They ultimately couldn't find "Mr. Lin." Property management said the apartment had just been rented out recently, the tenant information registered was an out-of-town number, which was now also unreachable. The matter reached a bureaucratic impasse. The police recorded the situation, advised property management to keep an eye out, and then left.

The neighbors discussed it for a few moments and then dispersed. In the corridor, only Lao Wang and the hundred packages remained. The setting sun's light streamed through the window at the end of the hallway, casting a strange golden glow on the cardboard boxes. They stood there like giant question marks.

Lao Wang sighed, pushed his empty cart, and entered the elevator. He felt a deep exhaustion, not just physical. This day felt like a long metaphor for the noise and loneliness, the abundance and barrenness of this era. We are all rushing within this vast network of logistics and information, delivering, receiving, yet often forgetting to ask, what is it all for?

The elevator descended, and the city lights began to twinkle on one by one. Lao Wang's tricycle was still parked downstairs, waiting for him to plunge back into this flowing maze composed of countless packages and data. He knew that tomorrow there would be new packages, new addresses, new journeys. It was just that "Mr. Lin" and his hundred packages would likely become an indelible, absurd, and bitter footnote in his career. Countless stories unfold in this city every day, bustling and prosperous, data flowing, but there are always corners hiding inexplicable silence and loneliness, like those unopened packages, lying quietly somewhere, waiting to be forgotten.