(This short story is a translated work, the original version in Chinese is attached below.)
The train attendant stood on the platform, with dark tunnels on both sides of her. A toneless broadcast echoed among platform, seemingly comes from nowhere.
See it. Say it. Sorted. It said.
She glanced at her watch and realized the underground was late again.
The underground moved through the tunnels like a worm, stomping with heavy, disordered steps. The carriage occasionally jolted, like an aging heart's abrupt beats. A row of yellow loops hung on the handrails, swaying, while rigid silver lights shone on the doors. The carriage was filled with a stale tobacco smell, mixed with the sweat of past passengers, leaving a nauseous feeling in the air.
A man lay sideways on the carrier's fabric seat. He bent his legs, keeping his shoes off the cushion. Besides him, there was only an elderly person. The latter seemed unable to clear his throat, frequently coughing and half-covering his mouth.
The train attendant turned to look at the tunnel. Two white eyeballs surveyed inside, hesitatingly approaching the light from the platform.
Before the train arrived, a man in a black police uniform approached her from behind.
"You have something to do today," the officer said to her, "this is the last train."
"I know, but..." she said, "there may be no one inside, or too many inside. Perhaps, we won't find anything."
"You know it's an excuse," the officer and the train attendant continued their conversation on the platform, "we are responsible for the whole city. If there's no underground tomorrow, countless people can't do their jobs, we'll lose shops, banks, the entire city's economy."
"Why not just tell everyone?" the woman retorted, "None of us would take the underground!"
"Do you think no one knows?" the officer sighed.
"I rely on the underground to survive, and so do you."
Suddenly, people in the carriage heard a mournful groan. The sound seemed endless, reminding them of infant's cries, the moans of the dying, or the sounds of air passing through diseased, aged lungs. But they knew it was just the friction between the carriage and the tracks. They struggled to believe it was just the friction between the carriage and the tracks.
The man on the cushion covered himself with his coat and curled up. The old man seemed to want to talk to him but ended up coughing.
The groaning in the carriage turned into a piercing screech, and the two rows of yellow loops leaned to one side. Everyone felt the immense force of the brakes. The old man grabbed the nearby handrail, trying to stand up.
A glaring white light came from the tunnel. A gray train crawled out of the tunnel mouth and stopped at the platform, then neatly opened its doors.
The train attendant and the officer exchanged a glance. The train attendant finally compromised.
"If we really find someone this time, I'll give it a try," she said.
Then, the two entered the carriage one after another.
See it. Say it. Sorted.
The broadcast echoed on the platform.
The train attendant and the officer walked silently through each carriage. It wasn't until the beam of one person's flashlight caught sight of something deep gray.
The man remained on the cushion inside the carriage. He wrapped himself in a coat, resembling a mole's body wrapped in cloth by children.
At the moment she recognized it was a person, the train attendant felt a bitter regret. She smelled the decay inside the carriage and nudged the homeless man.
"The underground has arrived," she said again, "you can't stay here."
"I don't have a bed tonight," the man said, "let me lie here for five more minutes. May God have mercy."
None of them spoke. She hoped he was at least a loitering couple or an oversleeping student, someone with countless reasons to be escorted out. But his eyes were tired and vacant, like the tunnel's dim lights.
"You have to get up," the train attendant was shaken by the man's gray eyes, "I know a place, maybe not luxurious, but it can give you some rest."
"Thank you," the man said loudly, "thank you, miss."
She glanced back at the officer, who didn't say anything. But she knew she had met his requirements, deepening her guilt. Together, they helped the homeless man up from the carriage and walked towards the stairs of the platform.
Only the toneless voice of the woman echoed on the platform.
The train attendant watched steam rise from the kettle, feeling a bit of warmth in the room. She took out a few teacups and found some biscuits in the cupboard, placing them on a plate. Carrying these, she returned to the homeless man and the officer.
"Have some tea," the train attendant said. She looked at the homeless man before her, noticing wrinkles around his eyes and neck. He had no luggage, dressed in slightly worn-out windbreaker and jeans. His hair and eyes were the same messy shade of gray.
"Thank you, miss," the homeless man took the tea, glanced at it, but didn't drink it. Instead, he looked at the officer across from him. "What was that job opportunity you mentioned earlier?"
"You told him?" the train attendant turned to the officer, "You know it’s……"
"No need to persuade me, miss," the homeless man replied, "I asked him myself."
The train attendant fell silent. She didn't say anything. She even felt somewhat relieved that she wasn't the first to speak. She realized for the first time that a cup of tea could be so bitter, as if it were a quagmire held within a teacup.
"Do you have family?" the train attendant couldn't help asking.
"Maybe," the man replied, "I haven't seen them in a long time. They probably wouldn't remember me either."
"What about friends? Surely there are people you can contact at times like these?" the train attendant pursued.
The man shook his head, "I lost touch of them after I went to prison."
She knew this person in front of her was suitable. In fact, this person was the perfect candidate they had been waiting for for weeks. She felt horrified by this fit.
"You perfectly meet our requirements," the officer also said, "We can now offer you an opportunity to join the railway system without barriers. The work you'll be doing is similar to that of a driver of some new sort."
The eyes of the homeless man lit up. The train attendant didn't want to see this change.
She looked at the rough, balled-up hands of the man. Could he never use these hands again? Could he never look at the sun again? Could he work tirelessly from seven in the morning until eleven at night? She thought of the present underground, the pounding heartbeat, and the vast metabolism consisting of the crowds.
"That's not it, we're not looking for people like us," she interjected,
"We want people who would become a real part of the undergrounds."
中文版：
列车员站在站台上，她的左右都是黑洞洞的隧道。毫无声调的的广播声不知从何处传来。
See it. Say it. Sorted. 它说。
她抬手看了看表，发现今天的地铁又晚点了。
地铁像蚯蚓一样在隧道中游动着，踩出凌乱的沉重的脚步声。车厢时不时颠簸一下，如同一颗垂暮的心脏突兀的跳动。栏杆上吊着的一排黄色的拉环左右晃着，呆板的银色的灯光打在了车门上。车厢中弥漫着浑浊的烟草的味道。这味道和过往的乘客的汗味混杂在一起，让人想要呕吐。
一个男人侧身躺在地铁的布面座位上。他把脚弯起，让鞋避开了坐垫。这趟地铁的乘客只有他还有一个垂暮的老人。后者好像有一口痰吐不出来，时常短促地咳嗽几下，又半遮半掩地捂住嘴。
列车员转头看向隧道。两颗白色的眼珠在里面巡视着，有些犹豫地靠向光亮。
列车还没有到站，她身后走来一个穿着黑色警服的男人。
“你今天得做点什么了，”警员对她说，“这是末班车。”
“我知道，但……”她说，“里面可能没有人，或者有太多人。我们什么都不会发现。”
车厢中的人们突然听到了一阵哀鸣声。这声音连绵不绝，让他们不住地想到孩子的哭闹，临终的人的哀鸣，或是空气穿过被疾病渗透的，老迈的肺叶的声音。但他们知道这只是车厢和轨道发生摩擦的声音。他们努力相信这只是车厢和轨道发生摩擦的声音。
坐垫上的男人把外套盖在身上，蜷缩了起来。老人似乎想向他搭话，但最终还是咳嗽了几声。
“你知道这是个借口，”在站台上，警员和列车员还在对话，“我们要为整个城市负责。如果明天没有地铁，那么无数的人都做不了他们的工作，我们会失去商店，失去银行，失去整个城市的经济。”
“为什么不干脆告诉所有人呢？”女人反驳道，“我们所有人都不坐地铁！”
“你以为没有人知道吗？”警员叹了口气。
“我是靠着地铁活着的，你也是。”
车厢的哀鸣转变为了刺耳的尖啸，两排黄色的拉环向一边倾倒。所有人都感受到了刹车所带来的巨大的力度。老人抓住了旁边的扶手，试图站起来。
隧道中传来了刺眼的白光。一辆灰色的列车随之从洞口爬动了出来，停留在车站边，又整齐地打开了车门。
列车员和警员对视了一眼。她最终妥协了。
“如果这次真的能找到人的话，我会试试的。”她说。
随后，两人一前一后走进了车厢。
See it. Say it. Sorted.
播报的声音在站台中响起。
列车员和警员沉默地在一节节车厢中走着。直到他们一个人的手电筒照到了一团深灰色的东西。
男人还留在车厢内的坐垫上。他把自己裹在一件外套里，好像一只鼹鼠的尸体被孩子们裹在布里。
在看清那是个人的一瞬间，列车员就感受到了酸涩的悔意。她嗅到了车厢内腐坏了的气味，艰难地推了推那位流浪汉。
“地铁已经到站了。”她还是说，“你不能待在这里。”
“我今晚没有床。”男人说，“让我在这里再躺五分钟吧。愿上帝怜悯。”
三个人都没有说话。她希望他至少是对磨蹭的小情侣或者一个睡过头的学生之类的，有无数个理由可以送出去的人。但他的眼睛疲倦而空白，就好像隧道中沉沉的灯光。
“你得起来，”列车员被男人灰色的眼睛所动摇了，“我知道一个地方，或许不算豪华，但能让你歇上一会。”
“谢谢你，”男人大声地说，“谢谢你，小姐。”
她又看向身后的警员，对方没有说什么。但她知道自己达到了对方的要求，这让她心中的愧疚感更深了一分。他们两个人一起把车厢内的流浪汉扶了起来，向站台的楼梯处走去。
只剩下毫无声调的女人的声音在站台中回荡。
列车员看着一串串蒸汽从热水壶上冒出，感觉这个房间中终于有了几分暖意。她拿出了几只茶杯，又在柜子里找到了几块饼干放到盘子里。端着这些回到了流浪汉和警员旁边。
“喝点茶吧。”列车员说。她看向眼前的流浪汉，他眼角和脖子上都有着细纹。他没有行李，穿着有些磨损的冲锋衣和牛仔裤。头发和眼睛都是同样的凌乱的灰色。
“谢谢你，小姐,”流浪汉接过了茶，看了一眼，却没有喝下它，反而看向对面的警员“你刚才说的工作机会是什么？”
“你说了？”列车员无措地看了警员一眼，“你这是在害人！”
“不用劝我，小姐，”流浪汉回答，“是我自己先问的。”
列车员沉默了。她什么都没有说。她在那一瞬甚至有些庆幸第一个说的人不是自己。她第一次发现一杯红茶能这么苦涩，它好像一个被盛在茶杯里的泥潭。
“你有家人吗？”列车员忍不住问。
“或许吧。”男人回答，“我很久没有见过他们。他们应该也不会想起我了。”
“朋友呢？这种时候可以联系的总有吧？”列车员追问道。
男人摇了摇头，“我入狱以后断了联系。”
她知道眼前这个人很合适。事实上，这个人就是他们这几周一直在等的完美的人选。她为这种合适而感到可怖。
“你完美地符合我们的要求，”警员也说，“我们现在可以给你一个没有门槛的加入铁路系统的机会，你所要从事的工作类似于一种新式的驾驶员。”
流浪汉的眼神亮了起来。列车员不愿意看到这种变化。她看着那人粗糙的团起的手，暗暗地想，他能永远不再用这双手吗？他能再也不去看太阳吗？他能从早上七点一刻不停地工作到晚上十一点吗？她想到现在的地铁，想到砰砰的心跳声，想到人群所组成的规模庞大的新陈代谢。
“不是这样的，我们要招的不是我们这样的人，”她打断道，
“我们要的是把人变成地铁。”