Old Liu, the director of the Spring Festival Intangible Cultural Heritage Application Office, had been losing hair a lot recently. Not because he was overworked, but because he was worried. The higher-ups had issued a strict order: the introduction for the Spring Festival's application had to be limited to 200 words.
Li Ming wakes up at seven o'clock every morning, not by the alarm clock, but by the slogan "Good morning, strivers!" broadcasted punctually over the community loudspeaker. He lives in a place called "Dual-Track Community," where everything operates on two tracks.
For instance, there are two sets of garbage sorting systems in the community. One is for "strivers," and the other is for "pausers." The strivers' bins shimmer with golden light, while the pausers' bins are dull gray. Li Ming is a striver, and he feels proud of this, though he doesn't quite understand what he's striving for.
Old Wang was known as a "rule-abiding person" in his community. He followed all the rules, always has. A new rule was posted in the community, stating that when walking in the community, one must walk on the white tiles; otherwise, a fine would be imposed.
Old Liu clutched the crumpled train ticket, the "101 hours" on it like a needle, piercing his heart. It wasn't that he couldn't afford a sleeper, or that he didn't know high-speed rail was faster. But he had to take this slow train. It was part of his "Year-End Dedication Award," purchased uniformly by the company.
The company grandly called it "experiencing life, staying true to our original aspirations," but in reality, it was a disguised deduction of year-end bonuses. Old Liu's "Dream Future Technology Company" was notorious in the industry for its high-intensity overtime and endless PPTs, yet their year-end benefits were shockingly stingy. For that little bit of performance bonus, everyone was grinding like tireless machines, even their journey home was being "educated."
Old Liu had worked at the zoo for thirty years, and his job was to clean the tiger enclosure. It wasn't a job that required much skill; it was just dirty and smelly. But Old Liu liked this kind of simple, direct work. Staring at the tigers all day was easier than dealing with people.
Recently, the zoo came up with an "innovation" and started selling tiger urine. They said that tourists were curious and wanted to buy it to "ward off evil." Old Liu thought it was absurd, but the director said it could generate revenue, and there was nothing shameful about it. So, in addition to cleaning the tiger enclosure, Old Liu had to collect tiger urine.
Old Wang is back in society. No, to be precise, he's back in high school.
He used to be an excellent firefighter, rushing into burning buildings to save lives was routine for him. But after that one big fire, Old Wang’s "brain was fried," and his intellectual level regressed to childhood. After a long recovery, doctors were delighted to announce that Old Wang had recovered to the level of a high school student.
Old Wang had worked at the "bleaching" factory for twenty years. This wasn't a laundry factory; it was an institution dedicated to serving humanity. Every morning, he would see batches of "faded" humans being brought in. Some had their memories erased due to work errors, others had their emotional experiences wiped away due to relationship problems, and some simply wanted to restart their lives like a blank sheet of paper.
The "bleaching" process was very simple, like re-coloring an old photograph, except the subject was a person. They were taken into large white chambers, and with a slight electrical hum and the low whir of machinery, it was all over.
Li Ming, a programmer toiling away at a software company in Beijing, found his greatest pleasure each evening before bed in scrolling through the "international ledger" – a spontaneous "account reconciliation" activity organized by netizens from different countries that had sprung up seemingly out of nowhere. This "reconciliation" was essentially a group of people from various nations posting their daily expenses on digital payment platforms and "cross-checking" with each other.
Initially, everyone was just having fun, comparing spending levels in different countries. But gradually, it evolved into something of a ritual. Li Ming looked forward to seeing the daily statement of "John," an American netizen. John's statements were always peculiar. One day he'd buy a $3.99 bag of "air," and the next he'd spend $25 on a virtual hat in some virtual space.
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 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.