In 2000, the dawn of the new century pierced the sky. Amidst the silence, a baby's cry announced the arrival of a new life. He was born under the spotlight, crowned the "Century Baby," seemingly carrying the blessings and expectations of the entire era. The media's flashbulbs followed every moment of his growth; his life was preset on a bright and smooth path.
Captain Li is dead. His body was not found, only the endless, rolling, gray sea remains.
This is the 173rd day of the ocean-going fishing vessel "Asmodeus" at sea. According to the original route, in another half month, they should have returned, back to the solid labyrinth built of reinforced concrete and neon lights. But now, everything is unknown. Or rather, everything points to another, deeper, colder, labyrinth with no exit.
Nowadays, everything requires queuing, even rockets launching into space. It sounds absurd, but it's actually happening.
Old fisherman Zhang San had no hobbies in his life, except he loved to go out to sea on his rickety boat at dusk. He didn't fish to sell them, it was purely for fun. As he put it, "Chatting with the sea is more comfortable than chatting with people."
Li Cheng, an ordinary clerk in the city of Beiping, squeezed onto the clanging trams every day, traveling from the pigeon coop in the south of the city to the concrete buildings in the north, earning just enough money to get by. Life was like a donkey pulling a millstone, going around in circles, with no end in sight.
On this day, Li Cheng returned home from work, as usual, exhausted, like a toad that had been drained of its strength. He entered the house, turned on the light, and the bright white bulb illuminated the four white walls, empty and desolate, revealing a sense of shabbiness. He took off his shoes, plopped down on the hard wooden bed, and stared blankly at the wall.
Dim yellow lights, greasy tables and chairs, the crowded restaurant is filled with a choking smoky smell.
I huddle in the corner, the food in front of me long gone cold. The man at the next table, a middle-aged man with a protruding belly, is puffing away, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts, like miniature graves.
Liu Tiezhu felt his life was like a repeating decimal, endlessly repeating the monotonous rhythm of gifting, chatting, and gifting again. Until he met "Little Sweetheart."
The list appeared on a gloomy morning, like a judgment handed down from the sky, silently landing on the principal's desk. A thin sheet of A4 paper, printed with more than a dozen names, all students of the school. Behind each name, in red ink, two startling words were marked: "Fallen to death."
In 2046, I stood in front of what used to be a Dicos restaurant. Now, it's an unmanned convenience store selling pre-made meals. The cold, robotic arms waved under the dim lights, resembling the opening scene of some apocalyptic movie.
Old Li felt like he was going crazy.