Old Fang, that's what people called him, though he didn't feel quite that old. It was just that his back was a little stooped, like a carrying pole long bent under the weight of life. He had drifted like a speck of dust for decades in this enormous, roaring city—Shanghai. The city was a forest of steel, waterfalls of glass, a phantasmagorical river of neon lights. And Old Fang was merely a shadow huddled in the cramped lanes of the old city quarters, a whole world away from the grand narratives of glamour and success.

Old Ma lived under the southern city wall, in an area of gray, nondescript tenement buildings. Truth be told, Old Ma hadn't weathered any great storms in his life. He'd spent half his youth tightening screws in a factory. His pension wasn't much, but it wasn't too little either – enough to get by, he wouldn't starve. His only attachment, or rather, his only source of "face," was his Corgi.

Old Ma felt quite content. A man in his fifties, finding a gig at a respectable place like 'Sam's Club', handing out small pieces of freshly grilled steak or tiny cups of new-squeezed orange juice to the 'members' coming and going, wearing just the right amount of warmth on his face—this job, compared to pedaling a tricycle at the alley entrance or hauling sandbags at a construction site, was worlds apart. He mulled it over himself: 'food sampler', what a novel title!

K. acquired the jacket on an ordinary rainy day. Neither bought nor gifted, it simply appeared in the hallway of his cramped apartment, hanging on the sole coat hook, as if it had always been there. The jacket was dark gray, a kind of lifeless gray that absorbed light. The label bore some indistinct symbols and a line of small text: "Highly waterproof, isolates everything." K. didn't think much of it at the time; the city was rainy, and a functional jacket was always useful. He even felt a secret delight, as if it were some anonymous favor.

Shi Lei felt like a firefly in this vast cavern, tiny, yet compelled to glow—though his light merely illuminated a small cracker smeared with foie gras or strawberry jam. The membership warehouse club where he worked, named 'Giant Warehouse' (Ju Cang), resembled a mountain range built of steel and concrete, piled high with a dazzling array of goods cascading from ceiling to floor, forming colorful cliffs. People pushed enormous shopping carts, like vessels on a river, navigating the canyons of this mountain range, their faces wearing a mixture of curiosity and possessiveness.

The wheels of time roll forward, sweeping everyone along. These days, even drinking a cup of coffee is no longer pure.

The sky was gloomy, like someone's grandmother had died, holding back a torrent of tears. But the "Juxian Teahouse" at the entrance of the old Beijing hutong was as lively as a boiling pot.

那天，我坐在电脑前，百无聊赖地刷着各种App。突然，一条推送吸引了我的注意：“震惊！雷布斯樱花照竟成违禁词！”

A dusky sky hung low, threatening to crush the parched land. This reservoir in Sichuan, once a vast expanse of shimmering water, was now crisscrossed with cracked lines, like the wrinkles on an old man's face, telling tales of time's merciless passage. The receding water level, a symbol of drought, unexpectedly unveiled a twist of fate – an ancient tomb, emerging from the depths.

I heard the news in a jazz bar. The television was hanging in the corner of the bar, silently playing the news. The anchorwoman had a beautiful face, her lips moving, uttering words like "century baby" and "passed away." I stared at the scrolling subtitles at the bottom of the screen, confirming the authenticity of the news.