Old Wang had been sitting in the train station waiting hall for almost three hours. The hard plastic chair beneath him was causing his back to ache, making him miss his old rattan chair at home even more. It had snowed last night, and the road surface had iced over this morning. Old Wang had fallen, making his back even worse.

He squinted, watching the passengers coming and going in the hall. Suddenly, he noticed some familiar faces—they were the photographers from the "cushion incident" that had been hotly debated online a few days ago. They were back, phones in hand, with a faint hint of excitement on their faces. Carefully, they pulled out some brand-new cushions, printed with "Warm Reminder," from their handbags, skillfully placed them on the hard chairs, and then began posing, flashing bright smiles for the cameras.

Old Wang was a small-time streamer, consistently going live at 8 PM every night to showcase his cooking skills, which had been seasoned by time and cooking fumes. His live stream room was named "Old Wang's Kitchen Aroma," and his audience was stable at a single-digit number, mostly retired folks from downstairs, occasionally a child from the neighbor's house would sneak in and shout "Grandpa Wang, hello."

Tonight was no exception. Old Wang skillfully sliced potatoes while the oil sizzled in the pan. He habitually rambled to the camera, “Making some shredded potatoes with vinegar today, simple and delicious, suitable for all ages. Don't you agree? Hey, Old Li, why haven't you sent any comments today? Did you go downstairs to play cards again?”

Old Wang was a cleaner at the Go academy, a quiet, gray-haired old man. His daily job was to sweep the playing rooms, wipe the Go boards, and pick up the scattered stones from the Go bowls and put them back in place. He had witnessed countless battles and heard countless sighs, but none of that concerned him. He only cared about the black and white stones, especially those that had been deemed "dead stones."

According to the rules, dead stones are removed from the board and placed in a special small box. But Old Wang always felt that these dead stones were unwilling to accept their fate. They were abandoned by their former owners, ruthlessly defined as "worthless" by the rules, and then thrown into the box, waiting to be used again, and abandoned again. Old Wang felt they should have some value, at least they shouldn't be treated like this.

　　The training ground was as serious as an international summit. Four German Shepherds stood in a neat line, heads held high, waiting for their trainer's reprimand. Their fur was shiny, their eyes firm, as if they were about to go to battle, rather than listen to a public criticism.

　　"Now, let's start roll call," trainer Lao Wang cleared his throat, his voice low, "Black Panther, your bomb detection training last week, you missed three, you need to seriously reflect on that. Did you hear me?"

Old Wang was an honest and law-abiding retired worker who had always followed the rules. Before this year's Spring Festival, the city suddenly announced that fireworks would be allowed in designated areas, but a "firework permit" was required. This news was like a drop of oil falling into a boiling pot, causing a huge stir.

When Old Wang was young, he loved watching fireworks. The dazzling colors and deafening sounds were the strongest flavors of the New Year. But now, in his sixties, he didn't even bother with firecrackers. The only reason he went to apply for this "firework permit" was for his wife. His wife had been a "firecracker enthusiast" when she was young. Every year during the New Year, the family would prepare a full box of fireworks. Since the ban on fireworks, his wife's New Year spirit had faded, and she was always depressed. Old Wang saw it and felt sorry for her.

Old Wang, a car mechanic on the edge of the city, had the greatest wish to let his son, Xiaobao, see a real fireworks display on the Spring Festival. This year’s Spring Festival was a little different from previous years. The news said that in order to protect the environment, many places had implemented a ban on setting off fireworks, but it had also loosened up a bit, allowing it in “specific areas and specific time periods.” This word "specific" was like a maze, making Old Wang completely confused.

Old Wang's home was located in the urban-rural fringe area. The tall buildings around them seemed like indifferent giants, and only the sound of firecrackers during the Spring Festival could bring a bit of liveliness. Xiaobao's eyes were always fixed on the fireworks that occasionally streaked across the night sky, his eyes full of longing. Old Wang knew that Xiaobao had a colorful fireworks world in his heart.

Old Li Tou was a temporary worker at the zoo. His daily job involved driving his beat-up van back and forth between the city center and the wildlife rescue station in the suburbs. One day, he received an urgent notice stating that a wild panda was "parading" on the highway, wiggling its butt while running, which was seriously disrupting traffic.

Old Li Tou mumbled to himself, "Is this panda drunk or something?" He had been driving for half his life, and he had seen all sorts of strange animals. But one that dances on the highway was definitely a first. When he arrived on scene, sure enough, there was a crowd of people pointing at a black and white furball, and the panda was wiggling its butt with a good sense of rhythm. It took Old Li Tou a great deal of effort to get the "dancing king" into his van.

Old Wang has been incredibly busy recently. His warehouse is piled high with all kinds of "China Red" products: red lanterns, red couplets, red clothes, red cups, and even red toilet seat covers.

All of this is due to the recent sudden rise in the "China Red" craze. Streets and alleys have been dyed red overnight. People are like they are under a spell, pursuing this color that represents joy and patriotism.

"Ten yuan? You're so stingy!" In the WeChat group, the homeroom teacher, Ms. Li, followed this sentence with an eye-rolling emoji. Zhang Qiang stared at his phone screen, his face flushed. He knew this "gentle reminder" was aimed at him.

The cause was a "charity donation" organized by the class to buy winter supplies for children in mountain areas. After much hesitation, Zhang Qiang still clicked "Donate 10 yuan." It wasn't that he was unwilling, but he was indeed tight on money due to recent company layoffs. He thought that ten yuan was also a token of goodwill, and every little bit counts. Who knew that this "goodwill" would instantly become the target of a public shaming.

After retiring, Old Wang's greatest pleasure was taking an evening stroll in the community garden. He always felt that the ground beneath his feet was a bit strange; not soft, but rather hollow. He tried stamping on it, to confirm he wasn't just seeing things.

Old Wang lived on the first floor and had suffered from dampness for years. He mused that it would be great if he had a basement. This thought, like weeds growing wildly in a corner, spread in his mind each day.