Zhao Xunjin, a name that dissipates in the wind like a musical note.

The sun slanted westward, casting a diagonal light into the narrow alley, dyeing the nameless yellow flowers in the corner a golden hue. Li Sijiu, a native Beijinger, was pushing his electric scooter, ready to start his day's "battle."

"Hey, Sijiu, what's new today?" Aunt Wang from the grocery store poked her head out, still clutching a handful of sunflower seeds.

天桥底下，昏黄的路灯把李四的影子拉得老长。他骑着那辆电瓶车，车后座的保温箱里还剩最后一份炒肝儿。这单送完，今儿个就算齐活了。

Taishan and the Cat

I began accompanying people climbing Mount Tai on a foggy morning. To be precise, it wasn't "accompanying," it was "being accompanied." I stood at the exit of the Nantianmen cable car station, like a forgotten piece of luggage, waiting for the next lonely soul.

On the day the CPPCC meeting closed, the sky in Beijing was as gray as a crumpled old newspaper. I walked slowly along Chang'an Avenue, my tail dragging listlessly on the ground. Actually, I'm not human, I'm a cat, a gray and white stray that's been wandering this city for who knows how long.

Someone said that this year's agenda included the issue of basic pensions for peasants, saying it would be raised to 600 yuan. Six hundred yuan, I tilted my head, what kind of concept is that? How many cans of cat food could it buy? Or, how many decent nights could it provide, without having to rummage through garbage cans for rotten fish bones?

The spring of 2024 arrived with more clamor than usual.

The sky was as gloomy as a rag soaked in ink, pressing down on the city of Beiping like a gray haze. Pedestrians on the street huddled in their clothes, hurrying along, afraid of being chilled by the cold weather. The teahouse on the roadside, however, was bustling with activity, filled with the sound of voices, the aroma of tea, and a mix of idle chatter.

Old Man Li is sitting by the sea again.

Li Ming awoke from a state of chaos and habitually glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 7:00. Outside the window, it was dim and gray, as if covered by a perpetually dirty rag. His building was always like this, shrouded in perpetual gloom.

I awaken to find myself in a vast labyrinth made of numbers. The walls shimmer with a cold fluorescence, constantly scrolling with various data: GDP, CPI, PMI… All of it revolves around a core number: 5%.

"5%," a voice echoes in my ear, low and mechanical, "This is the growth target for this year. You must find the path to 5%."