Li Ming, an inconspicuous weed in this steel forest, contributed his sweat daily beside roaring machines, just to earn those few banknotes that barely allowed him to stand on the city's edge. His world was small, small enough only to hold the creaking single bed in his rented room, and the sweet smile of his faraway girlfriend, Mei Ling. Oh, right, and his three-year-old phone, and inside it, the Apple account that held all his hopes.
Old Wang was a complete “snake-obsessed” person, though not in the literal sense. Born in the year of the snake, he held an almost obsessive pride in his zodiac sign. He firmly believed that people born in the year of the snake were inherently intelligent, calm, and strategic, and he had always strived to live up to this image.
In the office, Old Wang was renowned as a "human calculator." He could find discrepancies of even a few cents in any report that landed on his desk. Colleagues secretly called him "Old Snake," but they all knew it was a title tinged with respect.
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 John, a retired firefighter, habitually sat on the porch of his small cabin at the foot of the mountains in the evening, gazing at the distant peaks. Today, the sky was an unusually deep red; it wasn't the sunset glow, but a wildfire. Since that "redirected" fire, he had been watching like this every day, a nameless feeling always weighing on his heart.
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.