That room, less a home than a forgotten corner of the city, cowered in the perpetual shadow cast by towering buildings. The air hung thick with the damp smell of mold, mingled with the scent of cheap wood and the decay of old age. This was Old Liu's entire world, a space less than ten square meters. His bed occupied a third of it; the rest was filled with wood shavings, blocks of wood, carving knives, and wooden lives yet to take shape.
That piece of news initially surfaced like a faint yet clear note in the background noise of the city, appearing in the torrent of notifications pushed to my phone screen: "Thank you to the brave female passenger on Beijing Subway Line 5." It possessed all the elements that grab attention instantly only to be quickly forgotten: a specific location (Subway Line 5), a vague protagonist (the brave female passenger), an event tinged with a moral halo (bravery), and a public gesture of gratitude. However, for me, this message did not dissipate as expected. It lingered, refusing to leave, like a metaphor, or a doorway leading into some dark labyrinth.
Liu Wenhai, or Teacher Liu, as he was more accustomed to being called, was counting down silently in his heart. Forty-seven days left. In forty-seven days, he could step down from this lectern he had stood behind for over thirty years, clutching the pension—not hefty, but enough for him to retire to the countryside—and tend to the small vegetable garden he had long planned. Sunshine, soil, and the freedom of doing nothing—for an old teacher earning two thousand yuan a month and renting a cramped room on the city's edge, it was practically a preview of paradise.
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.
Wang Laowu, known as "Old Man Wang," wasn't ancient, just past sixty, his back a bit stooped, like the old walnut tree at the village entrance—looking withered but still sturdy-boned. He'd spent over half his life scraping a living from this yellow earth in eastern Henan, knowing the dirt clods better than his own kin. The village, Wangjia Gada, wasn't large, just a few dozen households where chickens and dogs were familiar sounds. Life flowed like the river at the village edge—seemingly moving, yet always the same old routines, undisturbed by waves.
A dusky sky hung low, threatening to crush the parched land. This reservoir in Sichuan, once a vast expanse of shimmering water, was now crisscrossed with cracked lines, like the wrinkles on an old man's face, telling tales of time's merciless passage. The receding water level, a symbol of drought, unexpectedly unveiled a twist of fate – an ancient tomb, emerging from the depths.
Old Li has been a little bothered lately.
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.