In our parts, summer arrived early and lingered exceptionally long. By May, the sun was already scorching, the asphalt roads softened by the heat, making your soles sticky when you stepped on them. The air was filled with the sweet fragrance of gardenias and the reek of rotting waterweeds from the riverside. Back then, the cicadas hadn't started their chorus yet, but the afternoons always made one drowsy.
Lao Lei, Lei Zhendong – quite a resonant name. But this past month, he felt more stifled than a sealed gourd. The little things at the company snowballed from sesame seeds to watermelons, then to winter melons, crushing him till he could barely breathe. The numbers on the reports were like rows of baring-fanged imps, constantly invading his dreams at night. People nicknamed him "the second Lei-Jobs," but the taste of being "second" now was nothing but bitter Coptis root. He himself grumbled, "This past month, damn it, has truly been the toughest time since I started the business!"
Lao Wang, Wang Shouyi – a plain name for a down-to-earth man – had been a clerk in the sub-district's "Comprehensive Governance Office" for what felt like an eternity, nearly twenty years. The office window faced the central garden: flowers in spring, cicadas in summer, fallen leaves in autumn, and the longing for heating in winter. Life, well, it was like the seasons outside his window, one after another; bustling on the surface, but not much real difference underneath.
Wang Er'mangzi, ever since he was born, had a left eye that was black, and his right eye, well, it was light blue, like a cat’s eye in one of those foreign paintings. Here in Sand Ridge Town, where yellow sand filled the sky, his eyes were quite the "sight," not too big, not too small. The townsfolk were used to sandstorms, used to clods of earth; a sudden glance at Wang Er'mangzi's eyes always made them ponder a bit. Some said it was unlucky, others said it was a gift from Heaven, a pair of "divine eyes" that could see through sandstorms.
The day was stifling, like a sealed soy sauce vat. The Start of Summer had just passed, and the real summer heat hadn't truly arrived, but in a place like Shanghai, once the crowds gathered, the warmth rose up on its own accord, like from a stove. Old Wang, Wang Deshun, retired for nearly five years, had been pestered endlessly by his little grandson today. Giving up his usual chess game at the alley entrance, he'd reluctantly trailed along to this confounded "Happy Valley."
K felt like a forgotten screw in a vast machine, rusted and irrelevant. He worked in District Seventeen of the 'Integrated Information Processing Center,' responsible for verifying endless streams of data that could never truly be finished. When he dragged his exhausted body back to the white cube they called 'home,' his wife, Ella, was sitting calmly at the gleaming dining table. Before her, suspended in the air, was a soft halo of constantly shifting colors—one of the existential forms of 'Unit 734.'
Doctor Xiao first realized something was wrong on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. He had just finished a not-too-complicated surgery and was taking off his sweat-stained mask when the head nurse handed him an unsigned grey envelope. The envelope's texture was unusually stiff, its edges sharp enough to seemingly cut a finger. "Someone left it at the front desk, said it was for you, must be opened personally." The head nurse's voice carried an unusual note of caution.
Doctor Liu felt a bit wronged, like he’d swallowed a cold, hard bun that lodged in his chest, neither going down nor coming up.
The people of this city believe in an unquestionable truth: nine o'clock at night is the boundary dividing states of being. To cross it, entering slumber, is akin to activating an invisible machine, infusing life with order, efficiency, and an indescribable 'correctness'. On street propaganda posters, citizens with serene sleeping faces are bathed in soft moonlight, set against a background of gears and wheat sheaves symbolizing abundance and health. The caption is concise and powerful: "Early Bedtime: The Cheat Code to Perfection."
Lao Ding, Ding Jianguo, felt time slipping through his fingers—not in the metaphorical "time flies" sense, but physically disappearing. This feeling began with the third "adjusted leave" announcement of the year. That A4 sheet, printed like an official red-letter document, was like a cold surgical notice, announcing that his upcoming weekend needed to be cut, moved, and stitched together in exchange for a distant and fragmented "mini-holiday."