At 5:50, Zhou Yinian went downstairs with his thermos.
The old town was still gray. At the mouth of the alley, the breakfast shop was just taking down its shutter boards. No steam was rising from the steamer baskets yet.
Across the river, though, the office towers in the new district were lit, whole rows of windows glowing an even white.
When he'd left yesterday evening, more than half the lights on the seventeenth floor had still been on. They were probably still on now. Someone over there hadn't gone home all night.
He screwed the lid of his thermos tight and headed out of the alley.
[Turn right at the next intersection. Nice and slow, Elder Zhou!]
The arrow turned right, then pointed straight ahead, and led him all the way to an iron railing gate. The sign above it read HUAIYIN PARK.
Zhou stopped at the gate for a second. It was only a ten-minute walk from where he lived. But he always went the other way to get to the subway, and he'd never once turned down this street.
Inside the east gate, the concrete plaza was already full. Twenty or thirty old people were lined up in five or six rows. At the front, a white-haired old man stood still with his hands clasped behind his back.
A red speaker sat on the edge of a flower bed, playing a thin, wavering flute tune.
[Morning exercise begins! Stay with the group, Elder Zhou. Not too close to the front, now. You don't want to block anyone.]
He hadn't planned on standing at the front. He set his thermos on the edge of the flower bed and slipped into the far end of the back row.
The music started, and everyone in front of him raised their hands at once.
Zhou raised his hands too.
When their hands pressed down, his had only made it up to his chest. When they turned left, he turned halfway to the right.
He looked up and found himself staring at the backside of the old man next to him. He turned back fast.
Once he'd found left, everyone had moved on to stepping forward with the right foot. When he looked down at his feet, he forgot his hands. When he looked up to find his hands, he forgot where he'd put his feet.
The old man next to him wasn't flustered at all. His left hand drew circles in the air. His right hand held a phone to his ear while he told someone that tofu at the market had gone up fifty cents this morning.
The man was taking a phone call, and he was still more in sync than Zhou.
Zhou locked onto a woman in a red vest in the row ahead and copied whatever she did. That got the moves right, but he was always half a beat behind. She'd push her hands out before his even started to go. She'd pull hers back while his were still hanging out there, like someone standing at the door waiting for a delivery.
He gave up on his hands and just counted beats. On the third beat, his knee ran into his elbow again.
By the speaker stood an auntie with permed curls. One hand was on her hip. The other held her phone up over her head, sweeping it slowly across the group, and she kept up a steady patter. "Hands up, good, look lively, everyone. I'm posting this to the group chat."
The camera swept from the front row to the middle, then to the back row, and stopped on him.
Zhou was stuck in the middle of a move where you sink back. His back was sagging, and his hands hung in midair, one high and one low, like he was reaching for something he couldn't quite get to.
The permed auntie lowered her phone a little, looked at him over the top of the screen, and turned to the friend beside her. "Young people only come to the park for the camera."
She was loud to begin with, and she'd said it to half the plaza. Not even the flute from the speaker could cover it.
Several people up front turned around. One old man laughed out loud, without missing a move.
"They film it, post a video, say, 'Look at me exercising with the old folks in the park.'" She wasn't done. "Kids in my grandson's class do exactly that."
Another round of laughter.
Zhou's face went hot all the way to his ears. He wasn't even holding a phone, but anything he said now would sound like an excuse.
Fine. That's a wrap, then.
He lowered his hands and eased his heels half a step back. His eyes had already found the thermos on the edge of the flower bed.
[Morning exercise progress: 12/40 min]
[Elder Zhou, you've only just warmed up! Stopping halfway doesn't count!]
The little box of numbers hung in the lower left corner of his vision, perfectly still, waiting for him.
The author publishes on NovelPhoenix, yet this chapter was copied without consent; the official posting is where readers support the writer.
Zhou stood frozen for two seconds. Then the half step went back where it came from, his hands came up again, and he caught the red vest's next move.
Still half a beat behind.
The permed auntie's phone had swept back to the front row. He didn't dare look her way again. He kept his eyes on the red vest's back and ground through the moves like it was a punishment.
The far end of the back row ran right up to the west side of the park. Under a stand of old scholar trees sat four stone tables, already ringed by old men who'd come to watch.
There was a commotion at one of the tables. Two old men each had a hand planted on opposite ends of it, and neither was letting go.
"I got here first."
"You got here first? Has your backside touched the stool yet? I've been sitting at this table for thirty years."
The one who said it wore an old jacket, unzipped, the collar of an undershirt showing underneath. He had a cloth bag in his hand. He didn't bother arguing. He set the bag on the table, took out a wooden box of chess pieces, flipped the lid off, and dumped them out on the table.
They clattered across the stone.
The other man glared at him a couple of times and muttered something, but in the end he picked up his tea mug and moved to the next table. The old man sat down on the stone stool and took his time setting up the pieces.
Zhou's hands stopped in midair.
He'd heard that sound before. Yesterday in the lobby, that old man's cloth bag had clattered a lot like this.
He looked over through the trees, but all he could see was an old jacket and the back of a graying head. As for the man yesterday, all Zhou had seen was an undershirt and a hand reaching for a chess piece. He'd never gotten a look at his face.
Every old man in the city who played chess carried a cloth bag, and every one of their chess boxes made that sound.
The front row had already turned. He hurried to turn with them and turned the wrong way again.
By the time he'd turned back, the old man had half the board set up. The seat across from him was still empty.
The old man wasn't in a hurry. He held a chess piece and tapped it against the stone table, again and again. But his eyes had gone past the trees and landed on Zhou in the back row.
Zhou pretended not to notice. Hands up, push, turn left. He got the turn right, and his feet fell behind.
The tapping stopped with one last click.
"You move like you just retired."
It drifted over through the trees and landed squarely in his ear.
Zhou turned around. "You just retired too?"
The moment it was out, he knew the "too" was one word too many.
The old man looked at him, like he was turning that "too" over. He didn't answer. He set the piece in his hand down on the board.
"Yesterday," the old man said at last.
Zhou opened his mouth. He couldn't decide whether to say congratulations or I'm sorry for your loss.
The front row turned again. He scrambled to keep up, turning and twisting, until all that was left in his head was where to put his hands.
When he turned back, the old man was still watching him.
"Old Gu." The old man jerked his chin at Zhou's hands. "Push it out. Don't just wave it around. Are you pushing a door or wiping a window?"
The line from the lobby screen yesterday, Mr. Gu Chengshan on his honorable retirement, flashed through Zhou's mind. The first entry in the intranet's personnel changes had said "Gu** Retired," too.
There were plenty of people named Gu. The Group's founder wasn't going to haul a cloth bag to the park and fight people over a stone table.
Zhou pushed his hands out a little farther.
They went out, all right. But his elbows were still soft, and halfway there, he wobbled all on his own.
Old Gu didn't say anything else. He looked down and went back to setting up his pieces. The seat across from him stayed empty.
For the next twenty-some minutes, Zhou couldn't take in anything else. His eyes just followed the red vest's back. His legs started to ache, and sweat ran down the back of his neck. The number in the lower left corner crept along, even slower than yesterday afternoon's countdown.
[Morning exercise progress: 40/40 min]
[Ding! Today's morning exercise check-in: success]
[Skill acquired: Tai Chi (Beginner)]
[No need to rush, Elder Zhou. Good fundamentals come from slow, steady practice!]
The flute in the speaker hadn't stopped. The white-haired man at the front started the closing moves one more time.
Zhou raised his hands with everyone else. The moment they left his sides, his feet settled first, sinking a little, and something steadied him at the waist, like a hand at his back.
He sat back into the stance, and his knee didn't hit his elbow. His feet felt rooted in the concrete.
His hands pushed out, and his elbows didn't go soft this time.
He still didn't look as good as the old men in the front row, and he was still a little behind the beat. But he was steady. From start to finish, he didn't wobble once.
At the edge of the plaza, the permed auntie's phone swept back from the front row.
When it reached the back row, it stopped again.
This time she didn't look at him over the top of the screen, and she didn't turn to say anything to anyone. She looked down, tapped twice, and deleted what she'd just filmed.
When she raised her arm again, she held the phone even higher than before, at a new angle, pointed straight at him.
"Sister Fang, are you done yet? The group chat's waiting." The friend beside her nudged her.
Auntie Fang didn't move the camera. "That boy's done this before," she muttered. "I bet."
Over at the stone table, the chess piece in Old Gu's hand hadn't come down for a good while either.
The moment the flute stopped, the group broke up all at once. Someone went to pick up a birdcage. The old man who'd been on the phone was still haggling with someone.
Zhou picked his thermos up off the flower bed, unscrewed it, and took a sip. The water was still warm.
"Young man."
Old Gu waved him over and tapped the stone stool across from him.
"Up for a game?"
Zhou checked his phone: 6:52. Go home, shower, change, eat something, then squeeze onto the subway. The timing was tight. There wasn't room in it for a game of chess.
"Another time. I've got something due at nine."
Old Gu grunted and tossed the piece he'd been holding all this time back into the box with a snap.
"Young people. So busy."
With that, he turned and called over to the next table, asking whether anybody was done and wanted to come over.
Zhou gave his back a nod and jogged out the east gate with his thermos.
By the time he got home and showered, it was 7:20. He boiled a handful of noodles, ate them standing at the stove, and put on the shirt he'd hung over the back of the chair.
Then he dug the gray sweater vest out of the wardrobe. He looked at it for a moment and put it on anyway. March mornings were windy.
He rinsed out the thermos and dropped in a fresh little handful of goji berries. At 8:10 he locked the door and went downstairs.
At the subway entrance, metal barriers had been set up to hold back the morning rush. He followed the line around and into the station. He couldn't squeeze onto the first train. On the second one, the crowd pushed him in.
He was jammed up against the door, his face nearly touching the glass. It was dark in the tunnel, and the glass showed a guy with limp, flattened hair in a gray sweater vest, a thermos held to his chest, his shoulders still heavy and settled from the morning's practice.
Any way you sliced it, he looked like he'd just retired.
He still had more than half an hour to go. At nine sharp, Wen Yining would expect those seven pages on her desk. Zhou pulled his thermos in closer and took out his phone.
8:24.