Autumn in Los Angeles, with a hint of dryness. The distant hills begin to smoke, like a kettle of boiling water.

An old man sits on his rickety wooden chair, gazing at the distant firelight, clutching a crumpled insurance policy in his hand, his last hope. His name is Carl, one of the few remaining residents at the foot of the mountain, the other neighbors having either moved away or gone bankrupt.

Old Wang paced back and forth in front of the express station, constantly rubbing his hands together, sweat beading on his forehead. This was the third time this week he had come here, all for two boxes of yogurt.

Two weeks ago, his wife, Xiao Li, a housewife who was keen on making friends online, suddenly told him that she needed to send two boxes of yogurt to a "friend from afar." "He's been very caring to me," Xiao Li explained, "He even taught me how to post food videos on short-video platforms last time."

Old Wang has been feeling anxious lately, not because of his mortgage or KPIs, but because his daughter has become obsessed with a strange thing—a wish lighthouse.

This lighthouse isn't an antique or a tourist attraction; it's a luminous structure, a full nine meters tall, standing on the top floor of a newly built high-end office building in the city center. It’s said that if you make a wish facing it, your wish is more likely to come true.

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.