Old Li sat on a bench in the hospital corridor, a newly printed insurance claim list resting on his leg. The numbers on the list were like cold, hard nails, piercing his heart. Six days ago, he was riding his old bicycle when a car making a sharp turn at an intersection knocked him flying. Old Li lay on the ground for ten minutes, felt his head, and since he could still move, he got up and walked away, pushing his bicycle.

Old Wang works in a cannery, which sounds a bit ridiculous, right? But he really is in a cannery, and his daily job is to put miniature sections of railroad track into specially made cans.

When he first entered the factory, he thought it was a joke played by some immature kid. Miniature railroad tracks? What use could they possibly be other than as a springboard for mice? On the first day, he couldn't help but laugh out loud at his colleagues on the assembly line, which earned him a scolding from the foreman, who said he was disrupting production order and deducted his pay for the day. From then on, Old Wang dared not laugh again.

The day Lao Wang decided to resign, the sky was gray, much like his current mood. He had worked at this company for a full ten years, transforming from a fresh graduate to a "Lao Wang" with thinning hair. He liked it when people called him that, it had a touch of self-deprecation and a helpless kind of intimacy.

In these ten years, he had written countless lines of code, like a craftsman polishing his work. He was used to the sound of the keyboard, used to the glow of the screen in the late hours, and used to struggling in countless bugs. He thought he had become one with these codes, like a part of his body.

Old Liu's biggest hobby after retirement is to wander around the farmers market at the entrance of his neighborhood every afternoon, picking out some fresh goodies. Recently, he's become obsessed with cherries. Those bright red fruits are just delightful to look at. But something feels off to him.

Zhang Qiang looked at the "Resignation Application Flow Chart" on his computer screen. It was densely packed with 26 steps, each step corresponding to a stamped circle, like a maze. He sighed, spread the printed resignation application form on his desk, and counted from the beginning with his finger, making sure he hadn't missed any "necessary steps."

Zhang Yi's husband, Li Ming, was definitely the "perfect husband" in her social circle. He woke up at six o'clock sharp every morning, prepared a balanced breakfast for her, took her to work, and then picked her up in the evening. His schedule was as strict as a precise timetable. Even their conversations always followed a fixed routine.

"How was work today?" he would ask gently, while helping her take off her coat.

Wang Meilin's fingers trembled slightly as she typed the express delivery tracking number into her phone. Two boxes of yogurt, or rather, "special supply" yogurt worth 125,000 yuan, were about to fly thousands of miles to her "boyfriend," a man she had never met.

Old Wang has been troubled lately. To be precise, it has been for a while. Since he joined the company's "sleep optimization" program, he has had to lie on a special "sleep optimization bed" every night. This bed, more of a technological cocoon, monitors your sleep data and uses micro-current stimulation to "optimize" your sleep quality.

Old Chen had worked at the aquarium for thirty years, transforming from a naive young man into a middle-aged man with thinning hair. He was familiar with the habits of every fish, knew which sea turtle liked to daydream in the corner, and which eel loved to hide behind the artificial rocks. Recently, the aquarium had introduced a new batch of sunfish, round creatures that looked adorable but were exceptionally delicate.

Old Wang was known as "Mr. Standard" at work. His life, just like his punctual 7:30 am clock-in every morning, was precise and meticulous. He loved rules, viewing them as the lighthouse guiding his life's voyage. This was not only reflected in his work but also in every detail of his life. For instance, he used the same needle every day to pierce the same capsule, extracting the fish oil inside, and then precisely dripping it into his morning oatmeal. This was his health regimen he had adhered to for twenty years.

This morning, as usual, he took out the polished steel needle, ready to pierce today's capsule. However, when the needle tip touched the capsule shell, it felt like hitting steel, unable to penetrate at all. Old Wang frowned, carefully inspecting the needle, the tip was intact, neither bent nor broken. He tried again at a different angle, but still, it didn't work. The capsule seemed to be enveloped by an invisible barrier, impenetrable.