Lunch break arrived, and Old Wang stared at his phone screen, waiting for his lunch, a double beef rice bowl. The phone app showed that the delivery person had arrived downstairs, but there was no knock on the door. He opened the door, and the corridor was empty, with only a faint fragrance lingering in the air.

Old Wang frowned and checked his phone. The order status showed "Delivered." He called the delivery person, but there was no answer. He began to feel irritable, hungry and tired, this was the moment he looked forward to the most every day.

In the corner of the living room, the blue-feathered parrot sat motionless. It used to be the liveliest presence in the house, greeting each morning with an imitation of Old Li’s voice: “Morning, old man!” Old Li had been gone for three months, and the parrot had also “passed away” with him, at least its voice had.

It was named “Little Smarty,” but now it seemed more like a mute. Old Li’s daughter, Li Mei, tried talking to Little Smarty, but the only response she got was the occasional pecking sound. This parrot was originally controlled by Old Li’s smart assistant, "Butler," and could engage in fluent conversations. Li Mei clearly remembered that in her father’s last days, he barely spoke to her, yet chatted enthusiastically with Little Smarty, as if the vividly feathered bird was the only one in the house who understood him.

The "Orion" disappeared.

Not a common loss of contact, but rather, like a crumpled piece of paper, erased from the global shipping monitoring map. This giant cargo ship, equipped with the most advanced AI navigation system and carrying invaluable electronic components, completely vanished into the depths of the Pacific without any warning.

"It's gone." Uncle Li's voice trembled slightly as it came through the phone.

"Miao Miao is gone? How could that be?" I put down my pen, a strange unease welling up inside me. Miao Miao wasn't just an ordinary cat; it was a pet companion implanted with an AI chip, touted as never getting lost.

Old Wang appeared at the entrance of the residential area every morning at seven o'clock sharp, rain or shine. He rode his old electric tricycle, the carriage always piled high with all sorts of packages, like a mobile treasure chest. The residents of the community were used to seeing him; he was like an old tree in the community, silently taking root, symbolizing stability and reliability.

Until last week, Old Wang suddenly disappeared.

"My Mimi is gone!" Aunt Wang's voice, laced with a sob, broke the tranquility of the residential area. Her beloved white Persian cat, Mimi, who was usually glued to her side, had vanished as if into thin air today.

The neighborhood doesn't have many residents, and they quickly gathered at Aunt Wang's doorstep. Discussions broke out; some said it had run away, others that it had been stolen, and even more pointed their gaze directly at Uncle Li, who lived next door. Uncle Li was usually quiet and kept to himself, owning a fierce German Shepherd and preferring not to socialize with others.

The southern sky was damp, humid like a freshly wrung towel hanging overhead. At the street corner, the old camphor tree, its leaves a dark green, stood silently. Old Zhou, carrying a chipped bamboo basket, ambled to the little shop at the mouth of the alley.

The shop belonged to Wang Saozi and had been open for some years. A faded blue cloth curtain covered half the doorway. When the wind blew, the curtain fluttered limply, revealing the soy sauce bottles, vinegar jars, and a basket of bright yellow eggs arranged inside.

Doctor Lin had lost weight recently. Her cheekbones, once rounded, now felt a bit sharp to the touch. Being a doctor herself, she knew it wasn't just fatigue; it was something weighing on her mind, draining her spirit. What was it? Her child was gone. That past summer, a sudden illness, and they couldn't save him.

With the child gone, the apartment felt empty, and cold. It had been a nice two-bedroom apartment, south-facing, with an old pagoda tree outside the window. In summer, it offered lush green shade; in autumn, its pagoda flowers littered the ground. When he was still around, he liked watching ants move their homes on the windowsill. Doctor Lin stood in the living room. Sunlight streamed in, dust motes dancing in the beams. But his laughter seemed to linger in the corners; she'd turn her head, and there was nothing. This apartment... she couldn't live here anymore.

Beijing's early mornings always carried a hint of coal smoke and the sour tang of dòuzhī, seeping under the grey sky into every hutong. Zhang Ma, as the neighbors called her—what her actual name was, she herself had almost forgotten over time. Her day began with dressing her son, Ming'er.

Six o'clock sharp. The sky outside the window was like a piece of repeatedly washed, faded blue cloth. I woke up on time, without an alarm. Some gear inside me always meshed precisely at this hour. First, the cat. He's called Mustard, a calico whose fur looks like it's been stained by smoke. He was Zhe's. He jumped onto the bed, nuzzled my cheek with his nose, his throat rumbling like a tractor engine starting up. He never rushes me, just silently reminds me that the new day has begun unloading, whether I'm ready to sign for it or not.

I went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The beans were bought just yesterday, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, with notes of citrus and flowers, like some distant, vague promise. Zhe liked Blue Mountain; he said its flavor had a sense of order. I don't get it. For me, coffee is just a weapon against the thick drowsiness of morning.