It was in the vast, sea-like archives of the Port Authority that I first noticed the ninety ships. Not because of their number—countless vessels ply the Pacific—but because of an almost perfect, unsettling symmetry. They numbered exactly ninety, no more, no less, forever maintaining this count like fixed pieces on a chessboard, traversing nearly identical routes from some colossal port in the East towards the distant West Coast of America. Then, with hardly a delay, they returned along another precisely calculated, slightly different course. Day after day, year after year.

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The city, a behemoth crouching beneath the grey expanse, its bones steel, its blood the crowded streets. But recently, an invisible plague, more suffocating than any visible calamity, swept through its massive form. This plague was the wind. Not the gentle caress of the fields, nor the majestic roar of the ocean, but a shriek from the depths of hell, a fury potent enough to tear souls, to shake existence itself.

The old library in the east end of the city had seen some years. Its dusty grey brick walls and tall windows exuded a quietness, but also a stubborn sense of being out of step with the times. Most people who came here were familiar faces: retired old gentlemen and ladies seeking a quiet spot to read the newspaper; students preparing for exams, hunkered down all day; and idlers like me, with nowhere else to go, who came here pretending to still be seeking knowledge, but really just killing time, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window.

梅姐的铺子，与其说是店，不如说是一个微缩的热带雨林。各种塑料花、小摆件、节日饰品层层叠叠，从地面一直攀爬到天花板，几乎要将那盏接触不良、忽明忽灭的白炽灯也吞噬进去。空气里弥漫着塑料、胶水和一种难以名状的、属于“世界工厂”心脏地带的尘埃气味。梅姐就坐在这片“雨林”的中央，一台老旧的电脑屏幕映照着她略显疲惫但依旧精明的脸。

Old Wang at the Civil Affairs Bureau's Marriage Registration Office was nearing retirement. He had sat in this palm-sized place for nearly thirty years. The red booklets and green booklets that passed through his hands, if stacked up, would probably reach half a person's height. The red booklets signified celebration, their gilt characters slightly dazzling in the sun; the green booklets were a bit duller in color, like the water of a late autumn pond – no ripples on the surface, but things were pressed underneath.

Recently, a new regulation came in, saying that for marriage or divorce, looking at the hukou booklet (household registration booklet) was no longer required.

At seventeen minutes past two in the morning, I was still awake. The rain outside wasn't heavy, but persistent enough, like a rambling old woman, endlessly repeating some long-forgotten complaint. On the radio, Billie Holiday was singing a song about loss, her voice like frosted glass, rough, yet radiating a peculiar light. I was on the sofa, holding a glass of whiskey on the rocks that had long gone cold. The ice had completely melted, leaving only a thin, amber liquid that tasted like a metaphor for some kind of failed life.

Old Ma first heard the word "tariff" from the old radio in the street corner. A hoarse male voice, like sandpaper, scraped against the dull afternoon air, speaking words he didn't quite understand: barriers, countermeasures, lists... To him, these terms were far less real than the grain of the century-old elm wood in his hands. Old Ma was a carpenter, a craftsman nearly forgotten by this era. His world was this small, street-facing shop, filled with the fresh scent of wood shavings and the atmosphere of bygone days.

Wang Cuifen's legs had always been straight.