Light slanted in through the window, cutting a golden triangle on the carpet. Then it slowly lengthened, the colour shifting from gold to orange‑red, then to dark copper. Dianzi sat by the window, the squirrel named Lychee on her knee, facing the darkening sea.
"Let it watch too," she said.
I stood before the full‑length mirror changing clothes. The black Lolita was already put away into the Xihuan, replaced by a new outfit. A light blue shirt, a navy blue pencil skirt, black high heels. Black over‑the‑knee stockings, the cuffs stopping six centimetres above the knee. This outfit was prepared for the evening's career development lecture.
"My treasures," Dianzi said into the floating interface, "tonight's schedule is a career development lecture on the ship. Sister says she wants to go."
The chat began to scroll.
[chat ] A lecture? On a cruise ship?
[chat ] What kind of career development
[chat ] Are they teaching people how to find jobs
"Probably," Dianzi said. She lifted the squirrel so it could see the screen too. "Lychee, are you coming too?"
The chat laughed.
[chat ] So cute 🐿️
[chat ] Lychee is the happiest squirrel in the world
I rolled up my shirt sleeves and glanced at her in the mirror.
"You are bringing it?"
"It wants to see the sea."
"It saw the sea yesterday."
"Yesterday was yesterday." Dianzi tucked the squirrel into her bag, leaving only a fluffy head and a fluffy tail visible. "Today is today. Being a girl, every day's sea is different."
I did not argue. She was right.
Outside the window, the sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving only a thin, long band of orange‑red light, like a tailor's chalk line drawn across grey‑blue fabric.
When we left the cabin, the lights in the corridor were already on. The carpet absorbed all footsteps, making the whole corridor as quiet as a tunnel with no end.
The career development lecture was in the conference centre on the fifth deck. When we arrived, a queue had already formed at the door—not the loose, chatting‑in‑small‑groups kind of queue, but the quiet kind where everyone looked down at their phones. The line stretched from the door to the end of the corridor, turned a corner, and disappeared from sight.
I stood on the outer side of the queue and let Dianzi squeeze in first to save spots.
"My treasures," I said into the floating interface, aiming the lens at myself, "today we are livestreaming workwear. Light blue shirt with a navy blue pencil skirt, black high heels, over‑the‑knee stockings with the cuffs just below the skirt hem."
I gestured with my hand. When walking, a small section of bare skin occasionally showed; when sitting, the skirt covered it.
The chat began to scroll.
[chat ] Looking good 👔
[chat ] So smart in workwear
[chat ] So serious today
I turned the lens around and aimed it at the queue. A sea of heads. Everyone wore ironed shirts and trousers without creases. Some looked at their phones, some flipped through notebooks, some practised self‑introductions to the air.
Then my gaze stopped on a middle‑aged man. He stood at the very end of the queue, wearing a faded blue jacket, holding nothing in his hands. He was not looking at a phone, not flipping through a notebook, not practising self‑introductions. He just stood there, staring at the backs of the heads in front of him, his expression flat.
But every few seconds, he would look down at his own shoe tips.
Not to check if they were dirty. It was the kind of looking down that came from not knowing where else to look.
I let the lens sweep past him without stopping.
"Let us go in and see."
The conference centre was large, able to hold several hundred people. Chairs were arranged in neat rows, like parts on a factory assembly line. The front rows were already full. Dianzi and I found seats near the edge. Dianzi propped the lens on the armrest of the chair, adjusting the frame to capture the whole venue.
The lecture began. The speaker was a man in his forties, dressed in a suit, his tie tied very tight. He liked to tap the table with his fingers as he spoke, making a duh duh duh sound.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was very steady, as if reading from a prepared script.
"Dear young people, today let us talk about career planning."
He paused and swept his gaze across the audience. The audience was very quiet. Several hundred people sat there, no one speaking.
"The job market is indeed quite tough at the moment." His tone had no inflection. "But opportunities still exist."
He pointed at the door. Beside the door stood a few cardboard boxes with labels that said "Resume Drop‑off".
"Everyone can hand in your resumes. HR will take a look at them."
After saying this, he glanced at the audience again. The several hundred people still said nothing. His gaze swept from the first row to the last, then came back.
"All right, let us begin."
The crowd moved. Several hundred people stood up at the same time, the sound of chair legs scraping the floor mixing together like a flock of birds flapping their wings at once. Some walked fast, some slow, some were pushed aside and pushed their way back. They all held resumes in their hands—some in clear plastic folders, some folded and stuffed into bags, some rolled into tubes and clutched in white‑knuckled hands.
I aimed the lens at the door.
The first cardboard box filled up quickly. Resumes were pushed through the slot, stacking on top of each other, corners poking through the gaps in the cardboard. The people behind kept pushing them in. When they could not push any more, they placed them beside the box, stacking them into a pile. Someone crouched down to straighten the pile, afraid the wind might blow them away. Someone stood nearby waiting, still clutching several copies in their hands, not knowing where to put them.
I let the lens stay there for five seconds.
The chat was quiet for a while.
[chat ] So many people
[chat ] Are those all resumes
[chat ] The cardboard box cannot hold any more
[chat ] My resume used to be handed in like that too
A man in a grey suit walked over, holding a stack of resumes—perhaps a dozen copies. He looked at the box that was already overflowing, then placed his stack beside it, on top of the others. On the top copy, the cover page said "Ivy League Master's Degree, three years of work experience". The "expected salary" column had been crossed out; the original figure was illegible, and "negotiable" was handwritten next to it.
After placing it down, he straightened his body, glanced at the box, then turned and walked away. He walked quickly, without looking back.
Another person came over. A young woman with her hair tied very tight, wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her wrists. She placed her resume on the floor beside the box, crouched down, and smoothed the edges with her hand. When she stood up, her knee made a cracking sound. She looked down, perhaps embarrassed, and walked away quickly.
The pile of resumes beside the cardboard box grew larger and larger—from one stack to two, from two to three. People passing by glanced at it, slowed their pace, then sped up again. Some stopped, as if looking for a place to put their own copy, saw that there was no room left, and stuffed their resume back into their bag and left.
The crowd at the door thinned. The pile of resumes beside the box grew higher and higher.
When the last person left, the cardboard box was no longer visible. It was covered by resumes, only one corner still showing, printed with the words "Resume Drop‑off".
I withdrew the lens.
Dianzi leaned close and whispered.
"Sister, those people's resumes…"
"Yes."
"Will anyone read them?"
—No. But I did not say it out loud.
I did not know.
There was no one at the door anymore. Only those cardboard boxes and the piles of resumes beside them, quietly stacked there. The fluorescent lights in the corridor hummed. The light fell on the resumes, and the white pages reflected a harsh glare.
The lecture was over. The crowd poured out of the conference centre. When they passed the cardboard boxes, some stopped to look, some walked straight past, some bent down to pick up a resume from the floor, flipped through it, then put it back.
The person who picked up a resume was a middle‑aged man in a dark blue jacket, his hair greying. He crouched down and flipped through four or five copies, looking at the school and major on each cover, then put them back. When he stood up, he braced his knees, very slowly.
After he left, the area beside the cardboard box became quiet again.
Only Dianzi and I remained in the corridor.
I crouched down and looked at the top resume. The young person in the photo smiled very standardly, very white teeth, eyes curved. The education section said a certain university, master's degree, a major that sounded very profound. The internship experience was a long list, starting from the second year of university. The self‑evaluation said "strong learning ability, good stress resistance, team spirit".
I put the resume back.
When I stood up, my knee made a cracking sound. Just like that young woman earlier.
"Being a girl, let us go," I said to Dianzi.
She nodded and put the interface away.
As we walked down the corridor, the fluorescent lights continued to hum. The cardboard boxes were still there, the resumes still there, their corners lifted by the wind and then dropped, making a very soft sound, like many people sighing at the same time.
Back in the cabin, I sat by the window looking at the sea. The ship was already far from the port. Water on all sides, no land in sight. The sea was very flat, no waves, like a huge sheet of grey silk spreading from the window to the horizon.
Dianzi placed the squirrel on the bedside table, facing the window.
"Lychee, did you see those resumes?" she said earnestly. "So many people."
The squirrel hugged its acorn, its expression dazed and earnest.
"They wrote them for a very long time," Dianzi continued. "But those cardboard boxes got filled up in no time."
She pulled the duvet up to her chin and closed her eyes.
"Sister, will they find jobs later?"
"I do not know."
"I hope they do."
She turned over, and her breathing slowly became even.
I sat by the window, opened the floating interface, and turned to the memo.
The cursor blinked. I pulled up today's records—a few video clips, a few observation notes, and one photograph. That photograph was not taken by me; it was a still image cut from my memory: he stood beside the cardboard box, looking down at the pile of resumes, his camera hanging on his chest, the lens cap off.
I moved the cursor to a new file.
Typed:
*Name: Lin Yuan (tentative)*
*Gender: Male*
*Age: estimated twenty‑five to thirty*
*Occupation: unknown, claims to be a part‑time photographer*
*Distinguishing features: carries an old camera bag, white shirt, collar worn*
*First appearance: after the career development lecture ended, photographed at the resume drop‑off area*
*Behavioural pattern: observes, records, but does not intervene*
I stopped the cursor after the full stop of the last line, thought for a moment, then added another line:
*Note: After he finished photographing, he looked for a long time. He was not looking at his own resume.*
The interface dimmed. I pulled the curtain halfway. There was no moon outside the window. The sea was dark and heavy, only the distant navigation light blinking on and off.
I placed my phone on the bedside table, screen down.
The Lingguang Xihuan flashed again. This time it was not a message alert, but another kind of signal—very short, almost negligible.
I looked down.
It just flashed once, then dimmed. Nothing.
But I remembered the frequency.
"Sister," Dianzi's voice came from under the duvet, muffled. "What are you writing?"
"Nothing."
"Is it that person from today?"
"Yes."
"If he appears again, can we take a photo for him? He takes photos for others. Let us take one for him too."
I looked out the window.
"All right."
She did not speak again. After a while, her breathing became even.
I turned off the light. The room darkened. Only a thin silver line of light leaked through the gap in the curtains, drawing a fine line on the carpet.
I closed my eyes.
Still that photograph in my mind. He stood beside the cardboard box, looking down at the pile of resumes. His camera hung on his chest, the lens cap off. The light from the screen fell on his face, casting deep shadows under his cheekbones.
He looked for a long time.
So long that I remembered his face.