Railings, Gravity, and a Flight

Old Zhou felt he was living like a potted plant. Not the meticulously pruned, zen-like kind, but one simply stuck in soil, placed on a windowsill, given a bit of water regularly, and nothing more. The "soil" was the Sunshine Nursing Home, the "water" was the three daily meals of mush, pills, and the occasional smile from a caregiver. Outside the windowsill was, theoretically, the world. But separated by a layer of smudged glass and a gleaming stainless steel railing, that world became like a landscape painting on TV – distant and unreal.

The railings were installed uniformly last year, supposedly for safety. The director spent an hour spitting saliva at the all-residents meeting, the main theme being: this thing will prevent you from falling. Old Zhou, dozing off below, thought, falling? From this third-floor height, not too high, not too low, falling would most likely just mean breaking a few bones, then lying in bed, becoming an even more standard potted plant. What really irked him was that the gleaming railing, like prison bars, constantly reminded him: you are penned in.

In his youth, Old Zhou was a fitter, skilled with iron tools. He sized up the railing: smooth, sturdy, joints perfectly sealed. The person who designed this thing must have really understood how to fix things firmly in place, just like the person who designed this nursing home must have really understood how to fix a bunch of old folks firmly here, until they became true "immovable property."

Life passed like lukewarm water, neither cold nor hot, just enough to maintain vital signs. Old Zhou spent most of his days sitting by the window, staring blankly at the railing. Sometimes he wondered, which was harder, this iron railing or his old bones? When he was young, he wrestled with steel using hammers and files, turning a chunk of iron into a precision machine part. Now, he felt like a rusty old part himself, waiting to be completely scrapped.

The nursing home was filled with a mixed smell of disinfectant and decay, and also an intangible scent of "correctness." Waking up on time, eating on time, taking medicine on time, sleeping on time, participating in those mind-numbingly boring group activities, like doing finger exercises led by young caregivers or singing revolutionary songs from decades ago. Everything was orderly, everything was for your own good. This kind of "good" was heavy, suffocating. Old Zhou felt the greatest lack of freedom was this meticulous "care" that stripped you of the right to make mistakes. Even the freedom to fall off the building was gone.

He began to study the railing. Not out of an impulse for destruction, but out of... well, a professional habit, or perhaps, an intellectual curiosity. He observed the positions of the screws, the weld points, the support structure. He discovered that the expansion bolts fixing the railing were driven into the wall, seemingly unbreakable, but the connection between the connecting rods and the main body of the railing used hex socket screws. He squinted, examining them as if he were reviewing blueprints back in the day.

Tools were scarce in the nursing home. Old Zhou began his "treasure hunt." During his daily walks, he searched in the yard, the activity room, even the corners of the dining hall. A smoothed piece of metal, a stiff wire fallen from a broom, even a discarded plastic spoon handle – he collected them all stealthily, hiding them under his mattress like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. He even started playing chess with an old man whose hands and feet weren't very nimble, and while he wasn't looking, "borrowed" a loose nut from his wheelchair's armrest – this thing might serve as a temporary wrench.

The whole process was slow and secretive, like a silent war. The opponent was the railing, this impenetrable system designed "for your own good." He was deeply engrossed, as if transported back to his younger days in the workshop, tackling technical challenges. Back then, he felt like a creator, able to change the form of matter with his hands. Now, he felt like a worker ant, or something else, carrying out a precise and absurd plan.

One early morning, before dawn, when most people were still sound asleep or lying quietly under the effect of medication, Old Zhou quietly got up and retrieved his "tools." He went to the window. Moonlight coated the railing with a cold, silver edge. He began to work. His fingers were stiff with arthritis, but he was exceptionally focused. That hex socket screw, he turned it bit by bit using the sharpened spoon handle and the "borrowed" nut. It made a faint, almost inaudible creak. In the silence of the early morning, the sound was particularly clear, like time quietly collapsing.

He spent a long time, perhaps an hour, perhaps longer. Sweat soaked his forehead, but he didn't feel tired, instead feeling a strange excitement. Just like when he finally made a qualified part in his youth, that solid and pure joy. When the last screw came loose, and a section of the railing could finally be moved, he stopped and caught his breath.

He pushed open the window. The cool morning air rushed in, carrying the smell of freedom. He held onto the loosened railing and leaned out to look down. The third-floor height, the ground looked blurry and distant in the dawn light. He remembered the law of free fall from his physics textbook, remembered gravity, this ubiquitous yet often ignored force. It brought the apple down onto Newton's head, and it also held him firmly in this nursing home. Now, he wanted to try, to see if he could use this force to play one last game.

He didn't hesitate, nor did he feel fear. His face even wore a childish, mischievous grin, like that of a prank successfully pulled off. Like diving into the river for a swim in his youth, he leaned forward and climbed over the "safety barrier" that he had personally dismantled in part.

The sense of weightlessness came quickly, the wind whistling past his ears. He felt like a bird, albeit a clumsy, falling bird. But in this brief moment, he was free. Not a permitted, arranged freedom, but one he had earned himself, even if only for a second, an absolute freedom.

The ground rushed closer, like an open, indifferent embrace. He closed his eyes, the last thought flashing through his mind was: This railing, the quality is actually quite good, it was a real hassle to dismantle.

The next day, the nursing home was in an uproar. The police came, family members came, reporters probably wanted to come but were stopped. The director's face was ashen, repeatedly emphasizing how thorough the nursing home's security measures were, how sturdy the railings were. No one could explain how the sturdy railing was suddenly dismantled by an octogenarian. It became a mystery, an almost Kafkaesque, unsettling mystery.

Only a few old buddies who had played chess with Old Zhou looked out the window at the railing, now repaired and even more securely fastened, with something complex in their eyes. They seemed to catch, in the mixed smell of disinfectant and decay, an added hint of rust and... the scent of flight. But this scent quickly dissipated, covered by a new round of daily routines "for your own good," as if nothing had happened. Only the railing, under the sunlight, still stood gleaming, like a giant, silent exclamation mark.