The rain wouldn't stop, like the final looping track of a cheap record – hoarse, stubborn, carrying a sense of weary fatalism. I was killing time in the old bookstore downstairs from my apartment building, the air thick with the mingled scent of musty paper and cheap coffee. The owner, a taciturn old man, was always behind the counter reading well-worn philosophy books, as if not even the apocalypse could disturb his rendezvous with Kant or Nietzsche.

That supermarket, named "Yongfu" – Eternal Fortune – ultimately failed to sustain its fortune. Like a weary behemoth stranded on the city's edge, it breathed its last on the day it announced its clearance sale and closure. The air hung heavy with the scent of cheap soap, expired bread, and something deeper, an essence called "despair."

Liu Wenhai, or Teacher Liu, as he was more accustomed to being called, was counting down silently in his heart. Forty-seven days left. In forty-seven days, he could step down from this lectern he had stood behind for over thirty years, clutching the pension—not hefty, but enough for him to retire to the countryside—and tend to the small vegetable garden he had long planned. Sunshine, soil, and the freedom of doing nothing—for an old teacher earning two thousand yuan a month and renting a cramped room on the city's edge, it was practically a preview of paradise.

When the plane landed at Keflavík, the sky was an indescribable grey-blue, mixed with a faint, elusive smell of sulfur. Three in the afternoon, yet the sunlight was as stingy as the residual glow before midnight. I had come to Reykjavik for a small translation seminar, the topic unimportant, at least to me. What truly drew me was the name "Iceland" itself, like an uncut piece of obsidian, cold, sharp-edged, yet potentially hiding unexpected light within.

Old Wang walked along this road every afternoon. There was nothing special about this road, much like countless others in the city, lined with buildings of moderate height housing various shops. People came and went; traffic flowed endlessly. When the sun was out, the mottled shadows of the plane trees would dapple the sidewalk, giving him an illusion of peace. Today, the sun wasn't particularly bright. The sky was somewhat overcast, and a heavy humidity hung in the air, hinting at a possible rain.

Old Ma, whose proper name was Ma Desheng, felt he'd lived a rather "failed" life. His parents gave him the name for good luck, hoping he'd amount to something. But those characters "Desheng," meaning "victorious," felt somewhat ironic attached to Old Ma. He'd been drifting along for nearly thirty years in a half-dead neighborhood factory in the north of the city. The factory's fortunes were waning year by year. And him? Just a gatekeeper, handling mail on the side, earning a pittance each month – enough to keep him from starving but never full.

No one knew exactly how many floors the "Interdepartmental Joint Review Office for Tariff Exemption Lists" occupied, or indeed, if the building truly possessed a structure like "floors" comprehensible to mortals. It was merely rumored to be like a self-replicating grey dream, entrenched in some forgotten corner of the city. I, Shen Mo, am a low-level archivist here, number 718. My job, simply put, is to verify and file the lists of goods granted "exemption" status. However, the word "simple" here was like a faded lie, an ancient joke long lost to time.

Old Wang felt that the city's neon lights sometimes glowed like a death warrant. Especially that letter from the bank – black ink on white paper, politely worded, yet more chilling than the winter wind. If he didn't clear the three months of overdue mortgage payments, his pigeonhole of a home would soon have a foreclosure sign hung on it.

His territory was the entrance to a small alley, not bustling with prosperity, but thick with the smoke and life of the everyday. A greasy sign, bearing the five crooked characters "Old Wang's Braised Goose," served as his sole landmark in this vast metropolis. As dusk settled, the large pot, used for over a decade, would begin to bubble and steam. The rich aroma of the braising liquid, mingling star anise, cinnamon, and some undisclosed secret spice, was the most familiar comfort to the neighborhood folks and the workers returning late.

北京的风，据说刮到了十二级。我在单位听到这个消息的时候，正对着电脑屏幕发呆，琢磨着午饭是吃楼下的盖浇饭还是隔壁的拉面。十二级这个数字听起来很厉害，像是个将军的军衔，透着一股不容置疑的权威。但我当时没太当回事，北京嘛，春天刮点风是例行公事，像老太太的唠叨，听多了也就习惯了。顶多就是头发乱点，脸上多点土，权当是免费的磨砂护理。

In Beijing city, the most feared thing is a strong wind. Not the moist breezes from the south, but the kind unique to the north: dry, harsh, carrying sand and dust, howling like wolves. Especially if you live in a tall building, the wind slams against the windows relentlessly, rattling them, making even the glass tremble.