It was just dawn, and the fog had not yet lifted.
Chen Hao put on his headlamp, slung his tool bag over his shoulder, and slipped on the wet stones. He steadied himself against the wall, muttering, "This damn weather is even hotter than the cafeteria breakfast."
Nana stood to the side, her flashlight beam sweeping across the ground. "There's a pile of rubble three steps ahead. I suggest you go around it."
"Okay." He stepped over it, but his shoe still rubbed against a small pebble, making a screeching sound.
The two walked in silence until they reached the eastern rock face, where the fog thinned slightly. The vines clung to the rock face, their silvery-white stems delicately wrapped around the crevices, swaying gently in the breeze.
"Is this the thing?" Chen Hao squatted down and reached out to grab one.
"Don't pull it hard," Nana stopped him. "The fibers are fragile and need to be cut at an angle."
She handed him a small, serrated knife. Chen Hao took it, knelt down, and examined the vine closely. The stem was as thin as a toothpick, with a faint sheen on its surface, as if coated with oil.
He tested the blade, making a gentle, angled cut. With a snap, the vine broke, but didn't shatter, landing intact in his palm.
"It actually works." He grinned and began cutting them one by one.
After cutting a dozen or so, he put them all into a cloth bag. The bag felt light when he picked it up, but he didn't dare shake it, afraid that the contents would crumble into pieces.
On the way back to the woodworking shop, the fog gradually dissipated. Sunlight shone down, and sweat beaded on his forehead, his clothes sticking to his back. The first thing he did upon entering the shop was to place the cloth bag on the table and untie the rope.
"What do we do now?"
"The fibers need to be extracted and softened," Nana said. "Soak them in warm water for fifteen minutes, keeping the temperature at thirty-eight degrees Celsius."
"Why all the fuss?" Chen Hao muttered as he went to boil water.
Once the water temperature was right, he put a few vines in. After soaking them, he took them out, and they definitely felt different; they were much softer.
"What's next? Twist it into a thread?"
"I suggest peeling off the outer layer first," she said. "Use your fingernail or a blunt knife to gently scrape it off."
He did as instructed. After scraping a few times, finer filaments were revealed inside, whitish in color, somewhat like fishing line.
"Can this be used as a string?" He picked up a string and gently pulled it.
Snap!
It's broken.
He tried another one, but it broke again.
After three attempts, all three broke.
“This is useless.” He threw down the materials and leaned back in his chair. “It looks sturdy, but it will break at the slightest touch.”
“Not properly treated.” Nana brought up the projector, which displayed a diagram of plant cell structure. “The internal crystalline regions are dense, and direct force will cause them to break. They need to be air-dried for two hours to allow the moisture to evaporate slowly.”
"We have to wait?" He rolled his eyes. "I don't have that much patience."
"If this step is skipped, the finished product qualification rate will be less than 12 percent."
“…Okay then.” He scratched his head. “I’ll eat a steamed bun first.”
He pulled half a cold steamed bun from the cupboard, munching on it while staring at the vines on the table. After finishing, he brushed off the crumbs, lay back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
Two hours later, Nana reminded everyone: "Drying is complete."
He sat up straight and picked up the materials again. This time it felt slightly different; they were more flexible.
He tried to twist them together, but as soon as he applied force, they broke.
The third and fourth attempts both failed.
"So annoying!" He slammed the piece of grass onto the table. "This isn't grass, it's a chicken carcass!"
"The process can be adjusted," Nana said. "It adopts a double-twisted structure, referencing traditional hemp rope making methods."
What is twisted pair?
She gestured with her hands, "First, twist the three fibers in opposite directions, then twist them together in the same direction. This makes the stress distribution more even."
Chen Hao couldn't understand the technical terms, but he could understand the actions.
He separated three small bundles of fibers, twisted each one in reverse, and then rubbed them together clockwise. This time, the feel was noticeably different; the thread didn't break immediately.
He increased his strength and continued to roll it longer. Just as it was about to take shape, the end suddenly loosened, and the whole thing fell apart.
"Why!"
He cursed, cut off the loose parts, and started over.
The second time, halfway through rubbing, my fingers slipped, and I failed.
On the third attempt, he finally managed to twist out a ten-centimeter-long thread. He held it up to the light; it was silvery-white and looked much sturdier.
“Let’s test the intensity,” he said.
Nana took out a small tensioner and secured both ends of the line. The display screen flickered a few times and then showed numbers.
"The tensile strength meets the standard," she said. "It can withstand more than 85 percent of the standard tension for a guitar."
"Really?" His eyes lit up. "Then make a lot more!"
"Each piece must be the same length, with an error of no more than two millimeters," she said. "Otherwise, it will affect the subsequent installation."
"You really think this is a precision instrument factory?" he sighed. "I can't even hold a ruler properly."
“We can use the marking method.” She took out a charcoal pencil and drew equidistant marks on the wooden strip. “Use these as a reference to knead the wood.”
Chen Hao did as instructed. He pressed the wooden strips against the edge of the table, comparing the length after each section was rolled. He added more if it was too short, and trimmed off any that was too long.
The first one was a success. The second one broke twice halfway through, so I had to start over three times. The third one was even worse; it broke apart halfway through and flew everywhere.
He spent a long time picking them up, his head covered in sweat.
"This job is more tiring than carrying bricks," he said, panting. "If I had known that making a broken piano would be so troublesome, I would have preferred to listen to radio noise every day."
“You once said you wanted to hear a sound,” Nana said. “Now we’re getting closer to that goal.”
“I did say that,” he wiped his face, “but I didn’t say I could become a craft expert.”
He kept going. The fourth and fifth strands, the more he rubbed, the smoother they became. He got the hang of it, knowing when to apply force and when to slow down.
The sixth one was the hardest. The last section was always loose, and I had to take it apart five times.
One last time, he held his breath and finished, bit by bit. Finally, a complete line was formed.
He held it up and looked at it for a long time.
"It's done," he said.
Six lines lay side by side on the table, all the same length and color, each with a faint sheen.
Nana tested each one with a tension meter and nodded: "All passed the basic test."
Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, his fingers still trembling slightly. He looked down at his hands; his fingertips were red, and there were several scrapes and cuts.
"It's not easy," he said.
The room was quiet. The only sounds were the wind from the vents and his own heavy breathing.
He stared at the six lines and suddenly smiled.
You mean they'll sing in the future?
Nana did not answer. A line of words appeared on her palm: Fiber strength meets the standard, ready for assembly.
He didn't read the words. He simply reached out and gently touched one of the strings.
It trembled slightly but made no sound.
But he felt he was already very close to that voice.
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