Old Man Zhang has been feeling a bit muddled lately. Not that his mind isn't sharp anymore, but he feels like something about the way life is going isn't quite right, though he can't put his finger on it. It's like the spring wind here in Beijing – blowing through the same familiar hutong entrance, but the smell carried on it is mixed with something else, something a bit pungent, and a bit... unreal.
Old Fang, that's what people called him, though he didn't feel quite that old. It was just that his back was a little stooped, like a carrying pole long bent under the weight of life. He had drifted like a speck of dust for decades in this enormous, roaring city—Shanghai. The city was a forest of steel, waterfalls of glass, a phantasmagorical river of neon lights. And Old Fang was merely a shadow huddled in the cramped lanes of the old city quarters, a whole world away from the grand narratives of glamour and success.
The list appeared on a gloomy morning, like a judgment handed down from the sky, silently landing on the principal's desk. A thin sheet of A4 paper, printed with more than a dozen names, all students of the school. Behind each name, in red ink, two startling words were marked: "Fallen to death."
Old Liu has no other hobbies in his life, he just loves watching football. To be precise, it's watching the national football team. It's not because they play so well, but on the contrary, because they play so badly. So bad it reaches a certain realm, so bad it develops a certain style, so bad it's addictive, like knowing it's bitter wine, but still wanting to drink it all.
I felt the earthquake at 3:17 PM.
At that time, I was sitting at my computer, trying to finish the ending of my novel. Outside the window was the uniquely gloomy sky of Chengdu, like a gray towel soaked with water, pressing down heavily. The air was filled with the mixed smell of hot pot base and damp earth, the familiar scent of Chengdu.
Doctor Lin had lost weight recently. Her cheekbones, once rounded, now felt a bit sharp to the touch. Being a doctor herself, she knew it wasn't just fatigue; it was something weighing on her mind, draining her spirit. What was it? Her child was gone. That past summer, a sudden illness, and they couldn't save him.
With the child gone, the apartment felt empty, and cold. It had been a nice two-bedroom apartment, south-facing, with an old pagoda tree outside the window. In summer, it offered lush green shade; in autumn, its pagoda flowers littered the ground. When he was still around, he liked watching ants move their homes on the windowsill. Doctor Lin stood in the living room. Sunlight streamed in, dust motes dancing in the beams. But his laughter seemed to linger in the corners; she'd turn her head, and there was nothing. This apartment... she couldn't live here anymore.
Six o'clock sharp. The sky outside the window was like a piece of repeatedly washed, faded blue cloth. I woke up on time, without an alarm. Some gear inside me always meshed precisely at this hour. First, the cat. He's called Mustard, a calico whose fur looks like it's been stained by smoke. He was Zhe's. He jumped onto the bed, nuzzled my cheek with his nose, his throat rumbling like a tractor engine starting up. He never rushes me, just silently reminds me that the new day has begun unloading, whether I'm ready to sign for it or not.
I went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The beans were bought just yesterday, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, with notes of citrus and flowers, like some distant, vague promise. Zhe liked Blue Mountain; he said its flavor had a sense of order. I don't get it. For me, coffee is just a weapon against the thick drowsiness of morning.
The afternoon sun slanted across the greasy tabletops of the "Lao Yutai" teahouse, dust motes lazily swirling in the beams of light. Inside, it was the usual crowd of regulars: Second Master Zhang, carrying his birdcage; "Big Mouth" Zhao, with his booming voice, who loved to discuss national affairs; and Mr. Qian, who drank his tea quietly, occasionally interjecting with a startling remark. The teahouse owner, Lao Wang, with his slight paunch, carried the long-spouted copper kettle, leisurely refilling everyone's cups.
"Have you heard? Down south, no, southwest, over in Myanmar, the earth dragon turned over!" Big Mouth Zhao took a sip of scalding jasmine tea, lowering his voice slightly, yet still managing to drown out the chirping of the thrush in the birdcage. "Tsk tsk, heard on the radio, it was quite a commotion, lots of houses collapsed, people...唉!"
Wang Er got himself a new phone, shiny like a spring roll wrapper just fished out of a wok. But that wasn't important. What mattered was the app inside called "Omniscient and Omnipotent Life Assistant." The name sounded like an ancient emperor's title, exuding an air of undeniable authority. Wang Er liked that kind of thing. He felt life should have a bit of that "who else but me" swagger.
This app really had something. In the morning, it would remind Wang Er to get up like a gentle female secretary, casually telling him the weather and which route had the least traffic—even though Wang Er rode a rickety old bicycle where everything rattled except the bell. It could also, based on Wang Er's search history for "how to make braised pork less greasy" the previous night, push him a coupon for the highest-rated deli nearby, adding a note: "According to your health data, your recommended fat intake for the week has reached its limit, but occasional indulgence is good for mental well-being!" Wang Er felt this app understood him even better than his own mother, especially the "occasional indulgence" part—that really hit home.
David felt as though his lungs were about to be deformed by the air that had been circulating in the cabin for eighteen hours, tinged with the smell of disinfectant and a faint weariness. He wasn't a tourist. His suit jacket lay wrinkled on his lap, tie loosened, his eyes a mixture of almost absurd determination and unconcealed anxiety. He, David, who had once owned a small gift-wrapping shop in Massachusetts, USA, was flying across the Pacific, destination: that Eastern country rumored to be able to "make anything." His mission, sounding a bit ridiculous yet starkly real: sourcing. Not buying the latest electronics for his neighbors, but for his own long-failed business, searching for a tiny spark... perhaps the last one.
His shop closed three years ago. It started with small goods – the exquisite ribbons used to adorn gifts, tiny metal clasps, oddly shaped wrapping paper. He had once taken pride in finding "Made in USA" suppliers, even if the price was a bit higher. But soon, customers began complaining about the prices, showing him pictures from some Chinese e-commerce platform on their phone screens, looking at him with eyes that basically asked, "Why don't you just rob me?" Then, he tried to pivot to higher-end wedding accessories, like custom lace gloves and veil decorations. He discovered that forget finding American workers willing to do such delicate work (the news talked about training seamstresses, which seemed like a fairy tale), even the suitable raw materials, the incredibly fine mesh netting and beads, originated from across the ocean. Ultimately, even the designs he thought were "unique" appeared on wholesale websites within weeks, priced at a third of his cost.