Lao Ding, Ding Jianguo, felt time slipping through his fingers—not in the metaphorical "time flies" sense, but physically disappearing. This feeling began with the third "adjusted leave" announcement of the year. That A4 sheet, printed like an official red-letter document, was like a cold surgical notice, announcing that his upcoming weekend needed to be cut, moved, and stitched together in exchange for a distant and fragmented "mini-holiday."
It began at the supermarket named "Wanjiafu"—though, of course, it might have lain dormant long before, only revealing its true nature during this closing sale. Official records show that during the final stages of the asset inventory, the accountant, a cautious man named Wang who wore reading glasses, checked three times before reporting, with trembling hands: five hundred and seventeen shopping carts had vanished without a trace. Not damaged or abandoned in corners, but completely, inexplicably gone.
The first time he woke up at half-past two in the morning, he thought it was just a coincidence. Outside the window, the city slumbered in a thin halo of light, neon signs like dying stars flickering their last weary colors. He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table; the red numerals "02:30" were like a brand, clearly seared onto his retinas. Thirsty, he thought, then got up for a glass of water, lay back down, and quickly fell asleep again.