The Unseen Hand and the Wooden Sparrow

That room, less a home than a forgotten corner of the city, cowered in the perpetual shadow cast by towering buildings. The air hung thick with the damp smell of mold, mingled with the scent of cheap wood and the decay of old age. This was Old Liu's entire world, a space less than ten square meters. His bed occupied a third of it; the rest was filled with wood shavings, blocks of wood, carving knives, and wooden lives yet to take shape.

Old Liu, a man whose name was as common and yet as profound as the wrinkles etched on his face. Over sixty years of hardship had not entirely extinguished the light in his eyes. When he picked up his carving knife, his calloused, large-knuckled hands seemed possessed of magic. Rough blocks of wood gradually awakened in his grasp, transforming into lifelike wooden sparrows. They had round, beady eyes, tiny beaks, and clearly visible wing textures, as if ready to flap towards the narrow slice of sky outside the window at any moment. These wooden sparrows were his only language for conversing with this cold world, and the only hope for his grandson Little Stone's medical expenses.

Little Stone, the child whose coughing grew ever tighter in the inner room, was the flickering flame in his aging life. The doctor's diagnosis was like a verdict, each word piercing Old Liu's heart like a needle. The medical fees, an invisible mountain, crushed him, leaving him breathless. Hope lay pinned on that intangible online world – a vast, seemingly omnipotent e-commerce platform. It was like an unseen hand, delivering Old Liu's wooden sparrows into the hands of distant strangers, promising life-saving money in return.

At first, things genuinely seemed to take a turn for the better. A few wooden sparrows "flew" out through the colorful phone screen. Old Liu watched the meager numbers increase in his account, like parched land receiving welcome rain. He carved with even greater care, each stroke凝聚ing sweat and anticipation. He carefully wrapped the little sparrows, using the cheapest cardboard boxes, walked several miles to the courier station, and paid the shipping fee – a considerable sum for him – with trembling hands. He imagined the delighted smile on a child's face somewhere far away upon receiving this gift.

However, disaster always strikes when least expected. A cold notification, chilling like a winter wind, arrived via the phone screen: "Buyer has initiated a 'Refund Only' request. Reason: Product is defective." The money vanished instantly from his account, as if it had never existed. And the wooden sparrow, into which he had poured three days of painstaking effort, was lost without a trace, like a stone dropped into the sea. Old Liu was stunned. Defective? Each piece was like his own child, polished countless times. How could there be a defect?

He tried to appeal. His fingers fumbled across the cold screen, entering a labyrinthine system. There was no angry debate, no chance to explain, only cold options and automated replies. "Dear user, according to platform rules..." "Please upload valid proof..." "System review in progress, please wait patiently..." He felt as though he were talking to a ghost, a behemoth constructed of code and rules, towering above, indifferent to his anxiety and grievance. He felt like an ant scurrying back and forth under a giant gear, never finding an exit. This unseen hand now revealed its other side – cold, arbitrary, imbued with a Kafkaesque absurdity.

"Refund Only," these two words became like a curse, appearing again and again. Sometimes the reason was "Item not received," even though logistics showed it had been signed for; sometimes it was "Description mismatch," with bizarre justifications. Each refund was like a dull knife, cutting away a piece of his hard work, and a piece of Little Stone's hope. His diligent labor resulted in empty hands and mounting debt – he even had to bear the cost of the outgoing postage. When had the world become so absurd? Were diligence and honesty truly worthless?

The pile of wood shavings in the corner grew higher, and Little Stone's coughs became more frequent. The medicine bottle was empty. Old Liu looked at his grandson's pale face, his heart aching as if pierced by a knife. Just then, news of a large order came through the platform – a customer ordered twenty wooden sparrows, supposedly as souvenirs for a company event. It was a huge sum, enough to cover the next few months of medical bills!

Light rekindled in Old Liu's eyes. He clung to it like a drowning man grasping a straw. He took out all his savings and bought the best wood. He worked tirelessly, day and night, his carving knife dancing under the lamp, pouring his entire soul into each sparrow. His fingers were raw, his eyes bloodshot, but he didn't care. He imagined Little Stone running around healthy again, imagined sunlight filling this small room once more.

Twenty wooden sparrows stood neatly arranged on the table, like a troop awaiting inspection. Old Liu wrapped each one carefully in the softest cloth and placed them in a sturdy box. He checked the address repeatedly, terrified of making a mistake. The moment he shipped the package, he clasped his hands together, murmuring prayers to the sky.

Days passed, each minute an agony. Finally, the phone screen lit up. Not a deposit notification, but that familiar, chilling interface— "Buyer has initiated a 'Refund Only' request. Reason: Product quality seriously inconsistent with description."

CRASH! Old Liu felt as if the sky had caved in. He collapsed onto the chair, all strength drained from him. He clicked on the appeal option, only to fall back into the cold labyrinth. This time, he didn't even have the strength to type. He looked at the wood shavings filling the room, at the innocent photo of Little Stone on the wall, at his own hands that once created life but were now powerless to save it.

The unseen hand. It had promised connection, opportunity; now it choked the life out of him. It represented progress, efficiency, the rapidly spinning logic of modern commerce. But within this logic, an old man's dignity, a child's life, were so insignificant, so easily erased without a trace.

Outside, the night deepened. The bizarre lights of the city illuminated the darkness of this small room. Old Liu sat motionless, frozen. On the table lay a slightly flawed wooden sparrow he hadn't had the heart to discard from an earlier attempt. It tilted its head, its black-bean eyes gazing blankly at the silent world. Perhaps it would never fly out of this room, just as Old Liu, trapped in the shadow of the unseen hand, could find no glimmer of light. His carving knife lay silently nearby, coated in a layer of cold dust. A craftsman's soul, shattered in the struggle against a phantom.