Old Wang's new mobile phone number ends in seven zeros. In their company, this represents absolute authority and even a touch of mystique. Old Wang isn't the boss, nor is he a senior executive; he's just an ordinary data analyst, but he is more obsessed with the perfection of numbers than anyone else.
Old Wang still failed to grab a ticket home this year. He stared at the computer screen, the distortion of the 12306 verification code was comparable to a Picasso painting. His fingers mechanically clicked the mouse, refreshing, refreshing, and refreshing again. The words "0 remaining tickets" on the screen were like a cold tombstone, declaring his defeat.
On the wall hung a huge ink painting, depicting a pair of mandarin ducks, but rendered with sharp, knife-like strokes, full of a sense of severance. This was the "Underground Divorce Company," a mysterious establishment hidden in an old office building in the city center.
Old Wang hasn't been quite himself lately. He no longer complains about the office coffee machine always being broken, nor does he secretly play games during his lunch break. He spends his days holding a strange device, tapping it repeatedly, making a "dong dong dong" sound, like some primitive rhythm. His colleagues were initially curious, but later got used to it, assuming Old Wang was up to some new trick.
After retiring, Old Li's most important daily task was feeding the koi at Guanyin Bridge. Those brightly colored creatures were not just fish to him; they were symbols of good fortune in his old age. He firmly believed that as long as he fed them on time every day, they would bring him health, longevity, and even a lottery win.
Old Wang squatted by the riverbank, smoking one cigarette after another. At his feet were more than thirty bulging woven bags, filled with dead koi carp. These fellows, once swimming happily in the pond, were now a heavy burden.
Old Li set up a stall selling goldfish at Guanyin Bridge. He watched as the ornamental pond under the bridge became a graveyard for koi. Red, white, black, crammed into more than thirty woven bags, they looked just like the harvested rice in autumn.
The willows by the pond drooped their heads, as if watching a silent pantomime.
Li Ming posted a moment, the content of which was very simple: The weather is really nice today.
Zhang Qiang was a standard office worker. He got up at seven o'clock every morning, squeezed into the subway, clocked in, and started his repetitive and tedious day. His life was like the black down jacket he had worn for three years: ordinary, practical, but unremarkable.