Four in the morning in New York, like an ink-soaked sponge, damp, cold, and heavy. The halos of streetlights diffused in the thin mist, barely outlining a long, winding queue snaking alongside Fifth Avenue. It wasn't a line for relief supplies, nor for some celebrity autograph session, but to snag a "Hummingbird" brand camera from faraway China.
Old Li felt like he was about to die.
There's something not quite right with Grandma Wang's eyes lately.
Lao Li sat at the window for thirty years, stamping seals for thirty years. His life was like those red ink pads: bright, repetitive, and indispensable. That is, until an "AI civil servant" arrived at the bureau.
Li Xiaomei knelt on the ground, her head buried deep between her legs, like an ostrich hiding all her fear and grievances in the darkness. Her body trembled slightly, and her white nurse's uniform spread out on the cold hospital tiles, like a helpless flower.
Li Ming has been a little anxious lately.
Chen Ke sat in the soft leather chair of the hair salon, eyes closed, letting Tony the hairstylist work on his hair. Tony's touch was gentle, with a hypnotic rhythm that made Chen Ke drowsy.
Old Wang's life after retirement was completely changed by a trampoline.
Lao Liu, or more precisely, Liu Dehua, but he preferred to be called "Lao Liu" by others, feeling it was more friendly. Lao Liu had been working at the company for nearly twenty years, transforming from a youthful lad to a greasy middle-aged man, witnessing the company's rise and fall, and also witnessing the rise and fall of countless "red envelopes".
On the first day back to work, the office was filled with a mixed smell of caffeine and anticipation. Lao Liu rubbed his hands, his heart itching too. Not for the little money, but for the feeling of "being valued". After all, who doesn't like to be favored by the God of Wealth?
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.