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.
That sidewalk, it's kind of interesting. Right on that old street near my place, next to an old wall covered in greasy ivy. At first, nobody paid it any mind. People just hugged the wall or walked on the curb, tiptoeing around bikes. Later, some busybody measured it and announced, "Hey, this thing's only ten centimeters wide." Ten centimeters, comrades, what does that even mean? It means my size 42 worn-out leather shoes, the ones I've worn for years until the soles are almost gone, couldn't even fit sideways. Placed vertically, you'd have to twist your ankle at a bizarre angle.
K first noticed the number on the scrolling screen of the commuter subway. A golden yellow number, accompanied by an up or down arrow of the same color, flickered quietly in the crowded, dim carriage. Initially, it was just another fragment in the stream of information, no different from the weather forecast, advertising slogans, or public service announcements. He wasn't even sure what it represented, only vaguely aware it had something to do with the "gold price," a distant and precious metal.
However, the number seemed to have a certain stickiness. The next day, it appeared on the display screen in the office elevator. The number had changed, the arrow pointing downwards, as if carrying a hint of dejection. When he went to the convenience store for a sandwich at noon, the small TV by the cashier was also broadcasting financial news, and that golden number caught his eye again, the arrow jumping upwards fiercely. K felt a strange unease, as if this number was silently seeping into every corner of his life. He didn't own any gold, nor did he care about investments. His salary was just enough to maintain a life that was neither good nor bad, occupying a cubicle in the huge office building like most of his colleagues, processing endless documents that seemed to point towards some grand goal, though what exactly it was, no one could say for sure.
Let me tell you, that day was hot like a giant, clammy hug. The air was thick enough to paste up your throat. Fatty and I were walking down the road to the border, feeling like two slabs of melting butter. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was, we were covered in "things". Not pimples, not tumors, but live, hard-shelled, still-wriggling turtles. Twenty-eight in total, no more, no less, strapped tightly to our bare chests and backs with wide tape and strips of ragged cloth. Fourteen on me, fourteen on him, like some kind of bizarre, symmetrical torture.
Nowadays, everything requires queuing, even rockets launching into space. It sounds absurd, but it's actually happening.
On a gloomy afternoon in April, I sat on a park bench, watching fallen leaves swirl in the wind. It was the 73rd day of my unemployment. I'd lost track of how many resumes I'd sent out, just like I'd lost track of how many pigeons were in the park.
Some strange things had been happening in this city lately. Manhole covers were starting to disappear inexplicably. The news said the police had launched an investigation, but so far, no clues had been found. The disappearance of the manhole covers seemed like some kind of metaphor, a sign that the city was collapsing, and I, too, was sinking along with it.
When Mr. K walked into the office on Monday morning, everything was as usual. Files were piled high, phones rang incessantly, colleagues numbly tapped on keyboards, and the air was thick with the stale smell of coffee and stifled silence.
But Mr. K's gaze was drawn to something on the wall.
There's something not quite right with Grandma Wang's eyes lately.
Li Ming stood beneath the giant Ferris wheel, clutching a handful of newly purchased plastic rings, sweat dripping from his forehead. Each cabin of the Ferris wheel displayed tempting prizes, from enormous plush toys to the latest electronics, and, of course, the red Maserati parked in the center of the wheel, gleaming alluringly.
The alarm clock was set for 6:30 am. The words “Tomorrow Work” loomed large on the phone screen, like a death sentence. Li Ming sighed, rolled over, and tried to bury his head under the covers, shutting out the cruel reality. But his brain had already begun uncontrollably replaying the last day of his vacation.
When he woke up in the morning, the air still carried a hint of the Spring Festival's aftertaste, the sound of firecrackers muffled and faint by the city's tall buildings. Li Ming decided to do something meaningful, like tidying up the mountain of clutter that had accumulated during the holiday. He opened his wardrobe, only to find that the clothes inside, as if by magic, had automatically arranged themselves neatly into "Workdays," "Weekends," and "Special Holidays." When he tried to take out an old T-shirt, an invisible force pushed him back into the "Weekend" section.