Old Zhou felt he was living like a potted plant. Not the meticulously pruned, zen-like kind, but one simply stuck in soil, placed on a windowsill, given a bit of water regularly, and nothing more. The "soil" was the Sunshine Nursing Home, the "water" was the three daily meals of mush, pills, and the occasional smile from a caregiver. Outside the windowsill was, theoretically, the world. But separated by a layer of smudged glass and a gleaming stainless steel railing, that world became like a landscape painting on TV – distant and unreal.

The railings were installed uniformly last year, supposedly for safety. The director spent an hour spitting saliva at the all-residents meeting, the main theme being: this thing will prevent you from falling. Old Zhou, dozing off below, thought, falling? From this third-floor height, not too high, not too low, falling would most likely just mean breaking a few bones, then lying in bed, becoming an even more standard potted plant. What really irked him was that the gleaming railing, like prison bars, constantly reminded him: you are penned in.

Three seventeen AM. Outside the window, the city was like a weary beast refusing to sleep, breathing low. Neon light filtered through the thin curtains, casting indistinct geometric patterns on the floor. I sat at my desk, the pages of the book spread before me unmoving, yet my ears were stuffed with noise—the argument of the couple upstairs, the canned laughter from the TV in the next room, the rumble of trucks passing on the distant street, even the subtle, persistent hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in. All of it mingled together, like countless sticky little insects, burrowing into my cerebral cortex, crawling ceaselessly.

Spring in Beiping, the wind still so unruly, swirling willow catkins and dust, finding its way straight down your collar. The Ma family's old window, patched with layers of paper, still couldn't block that strange 'whuuu whuuu' moan. Inside, though, it was nothing like the weather outside – stiflingly hot, like freshly steamed buns.

Old Zhao Si emerged once again from that grey, dusty building; the sky too was grey and dusty, as if coated in five years of grime. The poplar trees lining the street, however, shone with a vibrant green, seemingly shameless. It was already the fifth year. His daughter, the one whose name he now scarcely dared to whisper even in his heart, still 'lived' in that row of buildings behind the main one, cold and waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for him to settle that 'cost of eternal rest'.

The news came on the radio while I was cooking pasta. Not any special kind of pasta, just the most ordinary type, with canned tomato sauce from the supermarket, sprinkled with some powdered cheese. Outside, a light but steady rain was falling. April rain, carrying a sticky feeling that washes everything yet washes nothing away. The announcer, in a well-trained, emotionless tone, reported: "Gold prices plummeted sharply again today..." followed by a string of numbers and analysis, sounding like signals from a distant planet, utterly unrelated to the steaming pasta in my pot.

Xiao Li's electric scooter, like a weary beetle, navigated the canyons formed by the city's steel and glass. A new order popped up on his phone screen, marked 'Priority Delivery' in golden font. The address was an old, dilapidated residential complex he'd never been to—'Rosemary Garden'. The remarks section held just a few simple words: "Urgent medicine, please be as quick as possible, thank you."

He expertly picked up the package from a brightly lit chain pharmacy. The pharmacist handed him a small, sealed paper bag. It was light, seemingly containing only one box of medicine. He glanced at the electronic waybill: recipient name 'Mr. K,' no specific apartment number, just a unit number: 'Unit 3, top floor.' The pharmacy's lighting was stark white, making the pharmacist's face resemble a blurred mask.

The old accountant at the university was surnamed Liu, named Liu Wenhe. His name was refined, but he himself was stout, like a freshly steamed white bun. He had managed the university's finances for decades, seeing people come and go, his hair turning from black to salt-and-pepper, ledger books replaced stack after stack. He kept a living ledger of the personnel changes within the university in his mind.

Every year come May, when the climbing roses were in full bloom, covering the red brick walls of the old administration building, and bees buzzed about, Liu Wenhe knew: Professor Qian's money would be arriving soon.

I stare at this outdated gadget in my hand, its screen edges curving elegantly downwards, like the hem of a shy girl's skirt, or perhaps less flatteringly, like chronically malnourished ribs. Once upon a time, this curve was touted as a rainbow bridge to the future, the ultimate embodiment of technological aesthetics. Salesgirls, spitting effusively, claimed this arc held the universe's mysteries, allowing you to feel the pinnacle of ergonomic care in your grip, as if this phone wasn't for scrolling short videos and checking food delivery reviews, but for direct calls to God. I must admit, I believed it back then. Or rather, I wanted to believe. People have to believe in something, even if it's just a curved piece of glass. Just like when I was young, I believed love could last forever, only to discover it was even less resilient than this piece of glass.

Lao Li felt that this Qingming short holiday was simply more mentally taxing than going to work. His retirement pension arrived monthly, neither high nor low, enough for basic needs but far from affluence. Supposedly, it was time to enjoy a peaceful life. But how to enjoy this "peace" had now become a field of study, perhaps even bordering on metaphysics.

"Old man, don't just coop yourself up in the house all the time!" Mrs. Li shouted from the kitchen, her voice accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans. "Look, people are saying on their phones, the best way to rest during a holiday isn't sleeping, it's getting out, doing something, clearing your head!"

Old Wang, full name Wang Fugui, though that name was probably the most unreliable inheritance his parents could have given him. In this steel-jungle city, he was more like a malnourished old tree, barely putting down roots in a cramped rental apartment. Today was Qingming Festival. The traffic outside remained noisy, but Old Wang's room was filled with a unique smoky aroma—not cooking fumes from the kitchen, but the incense of ancestor veneration.