He stepped onto a land that had been reborn from desolation.
The ring of light that once covered the entire Malt site, resembling an intricate star map, has vanished without a trace, as if completely swallowed by the earth, leaving not a single mark.
Instead, a completely different scene unfolded.
Countless tiny rays of light, as fine as cow's hair, are breaking through the moist soil and standing stubbornly upright.
They are no longer artificially designed light paths, but rather like the most ordinary green grass in spring, spontaneously sprouting and growing freely with a wild and natural vitality.
Lin Yi's gaze swept across this field of light.
Those wall-symbol plants that once needed to rely on the cold walls to survive now have gained unprecedented freedom.
Their root systems are no longer weak, but are closely intertwined with the vast and complex mycelial network deep underground, forming a brand new, living web of life.
Silver veins flow slowly through the translucent rhizomes, like warm blood, supplying energy and information to each new shoot.
This place is no longer a cemetery of memories, but a breathing forest.
He slowly squatted down and tentatively touched the seedling closest to him with his fingertips.
The tender leaf trembled slightly under the warmth of his fingertips, and the light in its veins flickered, but that was all.
There were no familiar images projected, no chaotic flood of memories rushing into my mind, and no one telling their own story.
It no longer "speaks," it simply "exists."
An indescribable shock welled up in Lin Yi's heart.
The system he built with his own hands, the vast network centered on carrying and relaying memories, completed its final evolution without his knowledge.
It learned to forget, or rather, it chose to let go.
It no longer focuses on recording every fleeting moment, but chooses to become life itself, to become part of the city's landscape.
He took a deep breath and took out the piece of wall brick that was the source of all his obsessions—his mother's.
The edges of the bricks and stones have long been worn smooth by time, and they feel cold and heavy to the touch.
He walked to the center of this sea of light sprouts, preparing to say his final farewell.
He wanted to bury it here, to completely seal his personal sorrow and obsession within this new system, making it a part of the past.
However, the moment the fragment touched the soil, a strange change occurred.
As if sensing his intention, countless silver mycelia emerged from the depths of the soil, gently yet resolutely wrapping around the bricks.
They did not drag it underground for decomposition and absorption as Lin Yi had expected.
On the contrary, the flexible net made of mycelium slowly lifted the bricks, steadily transporting them upwards, and finally, precisely placed them under the tallest and most robust wall-whispering flower.
The petals of that wallflower slowly opened even without wind.
The soft light gathered at the heart of the flower, and finally condensed into three clear and resolute words.
Not a sacrificial offering.
Lin Yi's pupils shrank suddenly, and he froze on the spot.
He understood.
This system, which he created but now possesses its own will, rejected his sacrifice.
It refuses to sanctify or idolize any individual, including its creator and the memories the creator cherishes most.
It is telling him in this way: there are no gods here, no sacred objects, only equal lives.
Your memories are important, but they belong only to you and should not become a totem worshipped by the entire internet.
This is the most thorough severance, and also the gentlest liberation.
The system no longer needs him as a "god".
"If you leave, everyone will miss you."
An old but gentle voice came from behind me.
Lin Yi turned around and saw Granny Chen standing not far away, carrying a basket of dried wallflower petals, looking at him with kind eyes, as if she had already seen through his thoughts.
Lin Yi shook his head, his voice a little hoarse: "To think is not to remember. To remember is to not even need to think about it, the path is right there."
A knowing smile flashed in Granny Chen's cloudy eyes.
"Well said. Well, I can't do much else, so I'll just be the one watering the plants."
As she spoke, she tossed the basket full of dried flower petals into the air.
Those fragments that once carried countless stories did not wither and fall to the ground the moment they came into contact with the newborn light shoots. Instead, with a "pop," they transformed into countless, even more dazzling points of light, like a sea of fireflies, silently seeping into the earth and becoming new nutrients to nourish this land.
That night, all the "nameless paths" in the city underwent strange changes.
The data stream in the monitoring center started sending out alarms like crazy.
The light trails that crisscross the city are no longer rigid, lifeless lines.
They began to sway very slightly, like seaweed, with the night breeze and the city's energy flow, as if the whole city were breathing evenly.
An even more unbelievable scene unfolded: at several quiet street corners, when pedestrians returning home late at night approached with weary steps, the light filaments on the ground would spontaneously generate a tiny arc, like a considerate living thing, gently bypassing the pedestrians' footsteps, and then slowly returning to their original positions after the pedestrians had passed.
Lin Yi sat at the control panel in his residence, retrieving massive amounts of data.
His fingertips flew across the keyboard, generating complex curves on the screen.
Ultimately, a clear conclusion emerged: the frequency of light path flow had formed a perfect resonance with the city's biological rhythms—including the average heart rate, breathing rate, walking cadence of millions of citizens, and even the vibrations from passing vehicles.
The memory network is learning "consideration".
It no longer passively displays the road, but actively integrates into life, becoming the gentlest part of the city's living organism.
Seeing this result, Lin Yi knew it was time.
He came to the center of the malt ruins for the last time, and sat cross-legged surrounded by thousands of malt buds.
This time, he didn't seek out any secrets. Instead, he calmed his mind, mobilized his innate ability to perceive time and space, and aimed directly at the deepest part of his spiritual world—that crystal-clear, transparent ear of wheat that had been suspended for many years.
What he needs to do is not to connect, but to "disconnect".
He deliberately severed the last spiritual connection with that ear of wheat.
In an instant, an unprecedented tsunami of memories swept away from his mind.
The feeling was like a grand feast that had been going on for years suddenly ending, with countless faces, voices, emotions, desires, regrets, and other memories that did not belong to him being gently peeled away by an invisible force. These memories, which had settled deep in his soul and had almost become one with him, were gently peeled away by him.
The world fell silent like never before, leaving only him.
When the last fragments of memory vanished without a trace, only the most primal and purest scene remained in his mind.
When he was five years old, after a heavy rain, his mother held his little hand and walked him home through the alley.
On the damp mud, two rows of footprints, one large and one small, stretched side by side, crooked and twisted, yet with unwavering determination, into the distance.
That was the initial path that belonged only to Lin Yi.
The next morning, the first group of citizens who came to the Malt Site for morning exercise were surprised to find that a brand new path had appeared in the center of the site.
It is not made of light filaments, but is made of small, grayish-white pebbles that have been trampled very tightly.
The winding path, which doesn't follow any optimal solution based on data, possesses a casual beauty and leads all the way to the old residential area in the east of the city.
No one knows who paved this road overnight.
Grandma Chen was the first person to embark on this path.
She comes here every morning. Today, leaning on her cane, she stepped onto the solid cobblestone path, nodded with satisfaction, and said softly, "This path feels solid to walk on."
Meanwhile, Lin Yi's residence was already empty.
Tucked under the door was a small note with two lines of slender, strong handwriting:
"I'm going back. You can walk your own way."
Outside the window, a wild wallflower that had quietly taken root and sprouted at some unknown time was slowly blooming in the morning sun.
Inside its translucent petals, the faint light did not piece together any name, nor did it write any farewell.
They simply and gently converge into two words—
good morning.
As dawn breaks, the city awakens with a new pulse, the first rays of sunlight falling precisely on the winding new path, as if awaiting the footsteps of the first visitor.
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