窗外的雨，淅淅沥沥，应和着清明这个时节特有的潮湿与沉郁。对王海来说，这雨声像是某种永恒的背景音，如同他身体内部器官运转时发出的沉闷轰鸣。

Like a sudden high fever, news that the price of gold was about to break the one-thousand-yuan-per-gram barrier quickly swept through the northern industrial city where Wang Jianguo lived. Wang Jianguo, an old master craftsman retired from the state-owned machine tool factory, initially scoffed at it. In his view, gold, apart from adding a bit of "face" for his daughter-in-law at the wedding, had no real practical use. You couldn't eat it or wear it, and keeping it at home meant worrying about thieves.

However, the heat of this "gold rush" permeated his peaceful retirement life in an undeniable way. First, Old Zhang from the neighborhood chess room mysteriously showed off the "small gold bars" he had just withdrawn from the bank, claiming they were "hard currency" against inflation. Then, Old Li, who sold tofu at the wet market, also started muttering about converting his hard-earned savings into "gold beans" to "feel secure." Financial commentators on TV analyzed the global economic situation with modulated tones – the weakness of the US dollar, geopolitical tensions – seemingly endorsing this golden frenzy. Every fluctuating number, every emphasis on "risk aversion," hammered away at Wang Jianguo's originally solid values.

At half-past four in the morning, the sky wasn't fully light yet, murky grey like the cooling embers in a hearth. Old Zhang rubbed his bleary eyes, shuffled in his cloth shoes, and carried his chipped enamel mug out to the courtyard tap. The faucet sputtered twice before reluctantly spitting out a thin, ice-cold stream of water.

It is said that in the deepest recesses of this labyrinthine city, amid the dust of long-forgotten archives, dwelt a scribe named Aurelio. To others, he was known only for his days spent with yellowed pages and faded ink, yet none knew that he was not transcribing history, but pursuing a more ancient, more secret knowledge – the true essence of gold.

Old Dubois felt his rib was broken. Not a dull ache, but as if a red-hot iron poker was being brutally stirred inside his left chest with every breath, every slight movement. The pain was so real, so tyrannical, much like life itself often imposed upon him. He had slipped on those damned steps, coated with a thin layer of ice, still clutching a small bag of wrinkled potatoes, his sustenance for the next three days.

Wang Deshun felt his heart was like that piece of crumbling cement hanging precariously from the windowsill, just waiting to fall with a final "splat." But that sound, it was stubbornly slow in coming.

When Mr. K received the document, he was scraping the last bit of oatmeal from the bottom of his bowl with a spoon. The postman hadn't even knocked; the thick, beige envelope, bearing some sort of official seal, seemed to have materialized out of thin air on the doormat, exuding a characteristic archive room scent – a mixture of stale paper and dried ink. He couldn't even recall if he had heard footsteps.

In Beijing's spring, the wind is still the same old story – not too strong, not too weak, but it loves kicking up dust, getting in your eyes. Old Liu hunched his neck, pedaling his 'Flying Pigeon' bicycle – the kind where everything rattles except the bell – towards that newly opened 'He-something-Ma' supermarket. His wife had mentioned yesterday that their neighbor, Old Mrs. Zhang, had bought some kind of 'imported, especially soft' bread there. She told him to go check it out too, and while he was at it, grab a couple of slices to try something new.

April First hadn't arrived yet, but the air was already permeated with a scent of uncertainty. Like accidentally knocking over a pepper shaker, fine particles hung everywhere, ready to make you sneeze abruptly. My cat had been missing for three days. He wasn't the type to run away from home; he always slept in his fixed spot on the sofa or, when I listened to Bill Evans records, tapped the floor lightly with the tip of his tail, marking an almost inaudible beat. This time, he just vanished, without even a farewell meow.

I made coffee as usual, watching the hot water slowly seep through the coffee grounds, dark brown liquid dripping into the glass pot. Outside the window, the sky was that typical, characterless city grey. Maybe the cat just got tired of this grey and went looking for a patch of real, green grass. There was no basis for this thought, but it was better than nothing.

Lao Wang felt like he was about to drown in these cardboard boxes.