As expected, the orange high-temperature warning arrived on schedule, like a gilded invitation for the entire city to partake in a grand sauna. For all those not required to clock in at an office, the strategy for escaping the heat was strikingly uniform: flock to the shopping mall, that modern oasis of steel and concrete, to righteously share its free air conditioning.
The sun had just crossed the horizon, the morning light yet to fully dispel the city’s slumber, when figures already began to gather at the mall’s entrance at half-past nine. It had become an unspoken ritual. In the mall’s atrium, the tables and chairs intended to attract customers for coffee shops and bubble tea stalls now served as the exclusive domain of the city’s elders—the Grandpas Wang and Auntie Lis. They were the earliest “residents” here, sitting quietly with the unhurried poise of age. The businesses seemed to have grown accustomed to this special group of “patrons.” During off-peak hours, the staff would carefully navigate around their napping forms, reluctant to disturb the tranquility that belonged to them.
Some of the old gentlemen were more particular, arriving with their own folding chessboards. In a quiet corner of the mall, they would find two adjacent benches and, with a crisp snap, unfold a battlefield demarcated by the Chu River and Han Border. In moments, this small board would act like a magnet, drawing in two or three other “chess fiends” with nowhere else to go. They would squat or stand, stroking their chins in thought or whispering advice. A silent war thus commenced, carving out a pocket of serene martial arts in the midst of this bustling commercial hub.
As for the women, their nature always seems intertwined with words and companionship. Wherever they gathered, there were endless domestic tales to share and intricate webs of relationships to weave. From their ages to their addresses, from their children’s schooling to their husbands’ latest affairs, topics flowed between them as naturally as a cooling herbal tea on a summer afternoon, quenching the heat and soothing the spirit. The summer had only just begun, yet these aunties, brought together by chance while seeking refuge from the heat, had already become as familiar as long-lost relatives. When the lunch hour arrived, their biological clocks would punctually remind them to head home and prepare meals for their families, signaling the end of the morning’s tea party. As they parted, they never forgot to warmly invite the newcomers: “Sister, see you tomorrow at ten, same old place!” The so-called “old place” was merely a few benches near the first-floor restroom, but the promise of “be there or be square” carried the warmth and gravity of a bygone era.
Besides the fan-waving aunties and the chessboard-carrying uncles, there was a more unique figure in the crowd—a middle-aged man carrying a folding military-style cot. He was often jokingly dubbed the “greasy uncle” by some of the younger people, but he seemed utterly indifferent. His objective was clear. He would head straight for the second floor, skillfully locating a storefront that had long since gone out of business. The rest area at its entrance, desolate and ignored, was his ideal bedroom. He would unfold the cot, meticulously dust off the canvas with his hand, and then lie down with a sense of peace, as if it were his own private chamber.
Lying down to browse one’s phone is, without a doubt, more comfortable than any sitting posture. He could prop his phone by his pillow, lie on his side, and binge-watch one short drama after another. In a state of semi-consciousness, the melody drifting from his phone would echo in the empty corridor:
Singing karaoke in a villa, Silver arowana in the pond, I gift my uncle a tea set, He grinds the ink, and with a stroke, writes four words for me, A Grand and Glorious Future.
This short, twenty-one-second video, paired with a slightly clumsy bending and swaying dance, spread like a virus across countless phone screens. Throngs of people, young and old, were mechanically imitating it, filling their feeds with their own renditions. “A Grand and Glorious Future”—what a magnificent and beautiful aspiration. And the simple dance was an action anyone could easily perform. This curious combination blurred the line between what one can do and what one hopes to achieve. People immersed themselves in it, as if by merely bending and swaying, that distant “glorious future” could be brought within reach. It was, in essence, a mental game no different from fantasy, a collective self-hypnosis.
Lin Song, the man with the cot, was also scrolling through this very video. He often felt that his younger self had been so foolish in his considerations of the world. He wasn’t a lazy person; quite the contrary, his habit was always to act first and think later. However, in the wilderness of career and life, one is most often exploring alone, without a mentor. The uncorrected, foolish cognitions rooted in one’s nature become the most primal, and also the blindest, force driving one forward. He recalled how, in his twenties, he had thrown himself into business with nothing but passion and a crude business plan, only to be wiped out by the first major wave. Back then, wasn’t he also dancing a solo to the tune of “A Grand and Glorious Future”?
This fascination with the strange and fantastical had taken root in his youth. Lin Song could still vividly remember his elementary school days, when he would save up his breakfast money for a few days just to buy a newspaper from the corner stall. Looking back, he realized most of those papers were probably crudely printed tabloids without official publication licenses. Yet it was these unrefined publications that, with their black and white ink, constructed a bizarre and colorful world for him. The stories were more outlandish than those in One Thousand and One Nights, luring the young Lin Song to skip a fried dough stick at breakfast just for a glimpse into that world on paper. He would often imagine himself as the protagonist of these stories, capable of leaping over rooftops and discovering hidden treasures, a Don Quixote escaping the dull classroom to challenge the windmills in the distance.
Today, the newspaper stalls have vanished from the city’s map, but the weird and wondrous stories have never disappeared. They have merely changed their vessel, evolving from text to short video, from monochrome print to a dazzling spectacle of light and sound. As long as one’s phone is charged, even the patience required to save up pocket money is no longer necessary. A single swipe of the finger reveals a new “legend.” Lin Song looked at the swaying figures on his screen and couldn’t help but laugh at himself. His own time was dissipating, second by second, in the dances of others.
Despite the oppressive heat, Lin Song still insisted on visiting the wet market twice a week. Compared to the cool, illusory world of the mall, he was more enamored with the lively, human atmosphere—the yānhuǒqì—of the market. He loved the authenticity of haggling with vendors over a few cents, the blended aroma of fresh earth and seafood. Living alone, an old arm injury limited his ability to carry heavy things. But he could never control himself. Gazing at the glistening, emerald-green vegetables and listening to the enthusiastic cries of the sellers, he would unconsciously buy more and more. In the end, he would have to grit his teeth against the aching in his arm and hurry away from the noise and chaos, heading for home.
As the sun set, its molten gold finally giving way to dusk, the city settled down after the day’s clamor, presenting her lazy and magnificent silhouette. The last rays of the evening glow pierced through the gaps between skyscrapers, like a master painter generously splashing golden oil paint onto the steel cables of the cross-river bridge. The vehicles on the bridge, each plated in a soft halo of light, carried their burdens of fatigue and the day’s stories, merging into the vast, silent backdrop of the city. And Lin Song, one among those countless silhouettes, was on his way home, carrying his “spoils of war.”