My father resumed his usual schedule and joined the construction crew in the valley. I seized the opportunity, pulled the tape from the clay pot, and scurried into the "command center." The recorder sat on the large round table in the center of the tent. Bobby, a white-haired and black-spotted sheepdog, lay under the table, his tongue hanging out. I gestured to him, and he leaped up, running to the door curtain and wagging his tail excitedly. I opened the recorder's cassette compartment and carefully inserted the tape. The door snapped shut with a resounding click.
Suddenly, I heard the door curtain sway behind me. I turned around, but Bobby had vanished. He must have run away; he always forgot his master's instructions for some inexplicable reason. But it didn't matter anymore. I pressed play, the crackling sound of electricity tickling my ears.
Two seconds later, the tape recorder began to play an old male voice. I finally knew what I had hoped for. It was the bloody truth that I would never forget.
At midday, the forest path blazed white under the blazing sun. Though the tall trees along the path stretched their branches to their utmost, the sparse shade barely extended to the center of the path. The birds that inhabited the forest uttered long, trembling calls in a rhythmic pattern, sometimes near, sometimes far, unpredictable. In full light, the feeling of walking along the path was complex. The surrounding scenery was clear, yet a chill even colder than at night drifted by. During the day, the unpaved ground on either side of the path was visible, sparse weeds growing around the roots of the trees. The temperature was high, and sweat formed on my face and back, yet the sense of touch on my skin seemed muted. All I felt now was the warmth radiating from within the hollow shell of my body.
The strange flash Will was talking about was probably the light I'd seen when I'd accidentally looked up. I'd reached the stream I'd crossed during our last nighttime trail. As I paused to rest at the wooden bridge, I glanced up and saw a shimmering light hanging from the towering treetops in the distance. It looked like the reflection of metal or glass, visible only in sunlight. I'd assumed it was a lie Will had made up. I hadn't seen a similar flash that night; it couldn't possibly be a self-generated source.
I waited by the bridge for several minutes, my eyes stung by the point of light. It remained suspended in mid-air, unchanged. I was heading in that direction.
After the tape finished playing, I sat in front of the recorder, stunned. I don't know how long it was before Bobby's cry jolted me awake. Then, as if possessing a will of its own, my body took action before my mind could react. I pulled the tape out and put it back in my jacket pocket. Without taking anything else, I sprinted towards the forest.
Perhaps there was something he needed to confirm, like a blind person being pulled by a guide dog, that made his body react so desperately. Was it anger? An indeterminate fire seemed to burn within him, and the image of the charred ruins had gradually faded. The collapse had come so suddenly that nothing could be salvaged, buried beneath the rubble.
Is my current action aimed at rebuilding, or is it an attempt to salvage a few meager possessions from the abject dregs? My thoughts, finally clear, began to falter again. At this point, it's easier to leave the decision to my body, letting the subconscious within determine my next move. This state feels like a zombie, but once the authenticity of that tape is confirmed, I'm afraid I won't be able to make my own choices anymore. Someone whose most precious memories have been fabricated doesn't deserve the right to make their own decisions.
As soon as I saw the rope ladder dangling from the tree to the left of the two-story building, I knew exactly where the flash came from. The treehouse, built high up, had a square window, and the tip of an astronomical telescope protruded from it. Unoccupied at the moment, the tube pointed straight up into the sky, refracting sunlight onto the mirror and toward the path in front of the house. It wasn't an artillery scope or a spy's telescope; it was simply an astronomical telescope used for observing the stars. The clearing, unobstructed, seemed like a vast skylight. At nightfall, one of the two residents—more likely Dolly Eugene—would ascend the treehouse, turn the classically beautiful brown tube toward the sky, and take in the dazzling starlight.
The mushrooms in the greenhouse looked just like they had that night, their white, round caps clustered around the raised mounds of earth. I had no idea why they'd dedicated a greenhouse to growing mushrooms, and the scale of their cultivation didn't seem like they were intended for commercial sale. They were like the strange flashes of light hidden in the grass in novels, just decorative objects with unknown meaning. It was fitting that they appeared next to the cabin—this cabin and its owner, to me, seemed like an alien world, alien to reality. Touching the rough wooden door again, I still hoped it was all a dream.
I gently pushed the wooden door open. A wheelchair sat in front of the table where the tape recorder had been that night. A white-haired old man sat in it. Hearing the door open, he wheeled around. He wore a crisp white shirt, clearly ironed, and black trousers that were perfectly fitted. He wore the same attire even at home, a testament to his meticulous nature.
He kept his eyes closed, as if he didn't think it necessary to open them. I stood in the doorway, neither speaking nor moving. An unusual silence hung in the air. Then he rested his head on his hands again, and the wrinkles on his face twisted.
"I say, it's time for you to take action," he finally said. "If you plan to execute me directly, can you listen to a few of my last words?"
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