Old Pierre's greatest hobby after retirement was his evening stroll along the harbor. He always wore that faded navy blue jacket, clutching an old flip phone in his hand, his last bit of stubbornness against using smartphones. He believed those fancy gadgets only made people forget the meaning of walking.
Before retiring, the old soldier Pierre’s greatest pleasure was taking daily walks by the sea. He had an old-fashioned step counter that recorded his daily walking mileage. He used to be a radio operator on a nuclear submarine, but now, he just wanted to live a quiet life, like the calm sea he saw every morning when he opened his window.
After retirement, besides walking, Pierre also became fond of bragging with his old buddies in cafes. Their topics always revolved around those “thrilling” years of service. Pierre always smiled silently, feeling that those so-called thrills now seemed to have a layer of boring gray. Until one day, a young reporter came running to him with a newspaper, asking, "Sir, were you once stationed on the 'Triomphant'?"
Zhou Xiao was a "senior" programmer. How senior? He had been "fishing" at the company for five whole years. Of course, "fishing" here didn't mean he was actually slacking off, but that he had completely automated his job.
The night was deep, and the neon lights of Paris streets flickered like blurred eyes. Jean-Pierre sat by the window of a café, his coffee had long gone cold. He stared at his phone screen, where the words “Step synchronization failed” were displayed, a red exclamation mark mocking his efforts.
He wasn't an ordinary French soldier; he was a navigator on the nuclear submarine "Le Triomphant." His daily steps, which might just be a number for others, were related to national security for him. Or so he originally thought.
Old Wang stared at himself carefully in the mirror. The face in the mirror was yellow, as if it had just been pulled out of a dye vat, but not a pure yellow, rather a strange color mixed with specks of orange, like the flesh of a low-quality tangerine. He reached out and touched his cheek, feeling that his skin seemed rougher than before, with a sandy texture, like sandpaper.
Today was the third day of Old Wang's "color change."
"Dear passengers, welcome aboard this smart train provided by Voyah Chasing Light. The final destination of this train is: Hometown.”
The sweet female voice in the broadcast was like honey, making people feel warm inside. Li Ming took off his headphones, rubbed his tired eyes. Outside the train window, the scenery was receding rapidly, as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button. He glanced at his phone, the signal was full, but there were no new messages.
Old George's vegetable garden has recently become a mystery in the neighborhood. Not because he grew anything rare, but because his garden appears and disappears like a ghost.
At first, everyone thought Old George's dementia was acting up again. After all, he's in his eighties, so it's normal that he might not remember whether he'd planted anything. But gradually, people felt something wasn't right.
Old Mike has become a celebrity in the neighborhood ever since the "Vegetable Garden Game" was launched. Not because he grew any rare herbs, but because he gesticulates and mumbles in front of the bare patch of land in his yard every day.
At first, everyone thought Old Mike had dementia. After all, he was in his seventies, living alone in a small house in the suburbs, and aside from occasionally watering his flowers, he didn't have any other hobbies. But recently, he had suddenly become obsessed, running to his yard every morning, waving his arms in front of the empty space, and mumbling to himself, as if he were talking to someone.
Old Li had been feeling that something was off lately.
It started with the way his colleagues looked at him, a mix of awe, envy, and a hint of barely perceptible fear. It was as if they were looking at a lucky guy who'd suddenly gotten a promotion and raise, and yet also like they were looking at a ticking time bomb. Old Li was just a regular programmer, coding diligently every day. His only hobby was having a bowl of steaming hot beef noodles at a small stall near his neighborhood entrance after work.
"Team Leader Li, the weekly report?"
I looked up and saw the intern, Xiao Zhang, standing timidly in front of my desk. His eyes were fixed on the ominous red patch on my screen, as if staring at a piece of bleeding meat.