At the entrance of a county cinema, Old Li was struggling to carry a long bench into the ticket hall. He was wearing an outdated blue down jacket, with fine beads of sweat on his forehead, and a crumpled movie ticket in his hand - "Ne Zha 2".
The young ticket seller took the ticket with a numb expression. She glanced at Old Li’s bench and said with a flat tone, "Seatless ticket, bring your own seat, please go in."
Old Wang felt like he had become a "trendsetter" for the first time. It wasn't because he bought some trendy new electronic product, or learned some high-tech skill, but because of the small plastic stool he was carrying.
The cinema entrance was crowded with people, all carrying various types of stools – wooden, plastic, tall, short – a motley collection resembling a market. Old Wang looked at his slightly worn-out blue stool he’d fished out from home and suddenly felt a little embarrassed.
Xiao Fang prepared a special gift for her mother for the New Year – kowtowing. Not just once or twice, but a whole eight hundred and eighty-eight times.
Xiao Fang's idea was simple. During the New Year, elders like to hear good words and see younger generations perform grand salutations. She felt that kowtowing was the most direct way to express filial piety. Moreover, she had learned from short videos that some places have the custom of giving red envelopes for kowtowing during the New Year, and the more kowtows, the bigger the red envelope.
Three days after the Spring Festival Gala ended, Lao Liu was still muttering about the show on the subway. "What the heck, these days, even robots are on stage." The middle-aged man next to him pushed up his glasses, didn't respond, and just quietly browsed the news on his phone.
"Look at this robot, what's it even doing there? Just standing there like a wooden stake," Lao Liu continued to complain, habitually gesturing in the air with his finger. "The strangest thing is, what's up with its eyebrows? Two bare patches, kind of creepy."
Old Wang, wearing a pair of glasses polished to a shine, sat on his creaky rattan chair. It was New Year's Eve, the sounds of firecrackers rose and fell outside the window, but inside, it was eerily quiet. He stared at his phone screen, which was densely populated with pop-up notifications for various red envelopes.
Old Wang was carried into the bank.
He lay on a makeshift stretcher, his old cotton-padded coat emitting a musty smell, his thin, bony hands covered in age spots. Several young, strong sons, sweating profusely, carried him carefully, as if they were carrying a fragile porcelain. Li, the bank lobby manager, quickly approached, his professional smile becoming a bit stiff.
Old Wang won the lottery again, this time a third prize. The winnings weren't much, but enough to buy "Star" a week's worth of beef. Star is a Bengal tiger, Old Wang's most prized possession, because she's the most "voracious" eater in the zoo. The zoo is actually pitifully small, more like Old Wang's "private backyard" built with lottery winnings than an actual zoo.
Old Wang is eighty-one years old, with a hunched back and a face full of wrinkles. Yet, he always holds a lottery ticket in his hand, with a childlike gleam in his eyes. He doesn't buy lottery tickets to get rich, but for the sake of the dozen or so animals clamoring for food. The zoo's sign is rusty, with crooked words that read: "House of Hope." What is hope? Old Wang says, hope is watching these guys jumping around every day.
After retiring, Lao Li's favorite thing every day was to open his tablet after dinner and browse Taobao. He wasn't looking to buy anything; he just felt that the whole world seemed to be contained in that small screen, with new things happening every day, which was quite lively.
Before the Spring Festival this year, an advertisement popped up on the Taobao homepage: "Get your Spring Festival Gala Cloud Performance Certificate and become part of the hundreds of millions of viewers!" Lao Li's eyes lit up. The Spring Festival Gala was the taste of the New Year from his youth. He tremblingly clicked on it, and a cartoon character appeared on the page, wearing a festive red mandarin jacket and holding a golden certificate that read "2025 Spring Festival Gala Cloud Performance Certificate."
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.