The Disappearing Button

In the autumn of Beiping, the sky was so high, so blue. Sunlight spilled onto the grey roof tiles, warm and lazy, carrying a hint of languor. But inside Lao Liu's heart, it felt like a lead weight was pressing down, heavy, not relaxed at all.

Lao Liu, sixty-three years old, had lived in the hutong for most of his life. He was often seen carrying his birdcage, wandering among the neighbors. His pension wasn't high, but life was manageable, especially since he learned online shopping these past two years – talk about convenient! Food, drinks, daily necessities – a few swipes on his phone screen, and someone delivered it to his door the next day. Cheap, hassle-free, and so much variety. Lao Liu felt he had caught up with the benefits of the new era, quite pleased with himself.

Especially that "Refund Only" function. Lao Liu felt it was simply a stroke of genius, considerate of us common folk. Sometimes he'd buy a small item, like a pair of reading glasses for a dozen yuan or so, and they'd arrive with bent legs; or he'd buy a catty of red dates with a few bad ones mixed in. In the past, returning goods? Troublesome! The round-trip postage would almost cost as much as the item itself, plus he'd have to go to the post office, fill out forms, haggle with people. Now it was great: take a photo, click a bit, the money was refunded immediately, and you could deal with the item yourself. Saved trouble for the seller, and the buyer was happy too, how wonderful! Lao Liu felt that this world finally had some places that were reasonable, and favored ordinary people like him.

However, these good days seemed to be changing.

That day, Lao Liu saw a pair of "fleece-lined, extra-thick thermal long johns" online, priced at twenty-nine ninety-nine, shipping included. Seeing that the weather was turning cold and his wife's legs weren't good, Lao Liu thought of buying two pairs. The pictures looked quite thick, the color was right, and the reviews were full of praise, things like "great value for money" and "comfortable to wear." Lao Liu didn't overthink it, placed the order, paid, all in one go. He was even calculating that once the goods arrived, he'd let his wife try them, and if they fit, he'd get two pairs for his son too.

Two days later, the delivery guy stuffed a limp plastic bag into Lao Liu's hand. Lao Liu took it and weighed it in his hand, his heart sinking with a "thump." This weight wasn't right! Opening it, he was even more furious. What fleece-lined extra-thick? It was as thin as a layer of window paper; you could almost see through it against the light. The fleece? Just a few sparse hairs, like a patchy scalp. These weren't thermal long johns, they were clearly summer undershorts, and the lowest quality kind at that!

"Hey, what kind of nonsense is this!" Lao Liu muttered, picking up his phone, navigating familiarly to the order, ready to click the familiar "Refund Only." But after swiping around for a while, huh? Where was that button? In its old spot, now lay only a few lonely words: "Apply for After-Sales Service."

"Apply for After-Sales Service?" Lao Liu was a bit stunned. He clicked on it, and a bunch of options popped up: Return and Refund, Exchange, Repair... just no "Refund Only"! Lao Liu didn't give up, clicking into each one, only to find they all required sending the item back.

"Isn't this just causing trouble!" Lao Liu was getting annoyed. For an item worth twenty-nine ninety-nine, sending it back would cost at least ten or eight yuan in shipping. What if the seller found fault, said you dirtied or damaged it, and refused the refund? Wouldn't that be adding insult to injury? He remembered the old days arguing red-faced with street vendors over a few cents; how come it was still so unpleasant, just in a different place?

He decided to ask customer service. Clicking the little robot avatar, he typed: "Pants too thin, severely inconsistent with description, I want Refund Only."

The robot replied instantly: "Dear customer, we sincerely apologize for the unpleasant shopping experience. According to the platform's latest regulations, to protect the rights and interests of both buyers and sellers, the 'Refund Only' option has been cancelled. You can apply for Return and Refund, and we will provide you with shipping insurance..."

Lao Liu cut it off: "I know about shipping insurance, but this thing is only worth twenty-something yuan. I don't want to go through the hassle of sending it back and forth. Look at the photos, can you call this fleece-lined and extra-thick? Isn't this false advertising?" Lao Liu sent the photos he took.

Robot: "Dear customer, photos received. Based on your situation, we recommend you apply for Return and Refund. We strictly adhere to..."

Lao Liu flared up: "I want to talk to a human agent!"

After waiting a full ten minutes, a live customer service agent finally appeared, with the avatar of a smiling young woman. "Hello, dear customer, how can I help you?"

Lao Liu explained the situation again, his tone already impatient.

Agent: "Sir, I fully understand your feelings. However, the platform regulations have indeed been adjusted. How about this, I can help you apply for a five-yuan coupon as compensation?"

"Five yuan? Are you trying to shoo away a beggar?" Lao Liu was so angry he wanted to throw his phone. "I bought thermal pants, you gave me thin ones, and now you want to shut me up with five yuan? This is fraud!"

Agent: "Sir, please watch your language. We are a legitimate platform, and all products undergo review. If you believe there is a problem with the product, you can return it for a refund, and we will protect your rights."

"Protect? How do you protect? Protect sellers so they can sell whatever they want, and buyers who get cheated have to suck it up and pay for shipping?" Lao Liu got angrier as he spoke. "That old 'Refund Only' was so good. If the seller was at fault, the seller should bear the loss. Why make the buyer go through all the trouble?"

Agent: "Sir, this is also to regulate the market and avoid some malicious 'Refund Only' behaviors..."

Hearing this, Lao Liu felt even worse. He considered himself a decent person his whole life, even waiting for green lights to cross the street. How did he become part of the potentially "malicious" group online? Just because he wanted to save some trouble and protect his own small rights?

"Then why don't you regulate the sellers? Those who hang a sheep's head but sell dog meat, why don't you manage them?"

The agent was silent for a moment, then sent another line of text: "Sir, if you insist there is a problem with the product, please apply for Return and Refund, and provide a valid inspection report or third-party certification."

"Inspection report?!" Lao Liu almost laughed out of anger. "For a pair of twenty-nine ninety-nine pants, where am I supposed to get an inspection report? Who can I find to certify whether this thing counts as 'fleece-lined and extra-thick'? What's the point for me?!"

He felt this was simply absurd. It was like being tripped by a stone on the street, you go find the road management, and they say, you need to prove this stone actually exists, prove it was this stone that tripped you, get a doctor's note proving you were indeed hurt, and also need witnesses proving you were indeed walking forward at the time, not intentionally bumping into the stone... By the time you gather all that, the stone would have long been kicked away by some passerby, and the road repaired.

Lao Liu stared at the phone screen, at the agent's still smiling avatar, and the cold lines of text, suddenly feeling a deep sense of powerlessness. This wasn't about the money anymore, nor about those ridiculously thin pants. It was a feeling, a feeling of being boxed in, toyed with by a huge, invisible, yet omnipresent set of rules. That disappearing button was like a small window, once opened for little people like him to breathe a little, to find some reason, and now, with a "snap," it was shut.

He exited the chat interface, tossed the "fleece-lined extra-thick" long johns into the corner like discarding something unlucky. The phone screen remained lit, colorful product recommendations still popping up incessantly, tempting, promising a convenient and wonderful shopping paradise.

Lao Liu walked to the window, looked at the still azure sky outside, listened to the familiar cries of vendors from the hutong, but his heart couldn't warm up. He suddenly remembered the characters penned by Mr. Lu Xun, those who struggled under silent oppression, eventually becoming numb or silent. Was he, too, destined to become like that?

"Sigh..." He let out a long sigh, filled with anger, helplessness, and more than anything, an indistinct sense of sorrow. That disappearing button, perhaps it took away more than just the convenience of a few yuan; perhaps it took something more important, things called trust and dignity.

The sky was still so blue, but in Lao Liu's eyes, it seemed veiled in a faint, lingering layer of grey. He thought, tomorrow, perhaps he should go check out the morning market. The goods there, you could see them, touch them. Even if he argued with the stall owner over ten or twenty cents, at least it was real people interacting with real people, much better than facing a smiling machine that only said "regulations state..." He just didn't know how long such "reality" could last. This world was changing too fast, so fast it was hard to keep up, and it made one a bit... scared.