The night wind whipped up dust, carrying the metallic smell of cooled steel, as it swept across the broken walls and ruins of the pumping station.
Lin Yi stood in front of the mirror frame, which was covered by vines and looked like an eye from another world. The moonlight poured down like mercury, making his shadow long and distorted.
Without hesitation, he gently placed the heavy envelope on the stone platform in front of the mirror frame, as if performing a sacred and ancient sacrifice.
The miracle occurred the instant the envelope touched the stone platform.
Without any external force tearing it open, the seal on the envelope silently cracked open on its own under the moonlight, revealing a gap that opened like a mouth.
However, it was empty; there was no letter, no writing, only a wisp of grayish-white mist, paler than moonlight, rising slowly like a spirit imprisoned for a thousand years.
The mist swirled and condensed in the air, eventually transforming into a phantom yet clearly defined hand.
It hovered in front of Lin Yi, with a hint of hesitation and longing, and then gently and tenderly stroked the hideous scar on the palm of his right hand.
Those scars are the mark of the old world, an eternal memorial left by the explosion.
The touch was cold, yet it seemed to carry a warmth that penetrated the soul.
Lin Yi did not back down, nor did he even blink.
He met the misty hand, his voice low and hoarse, as if declaring to the night sky, or perhaps to himself: "Mom, I burned your letter, but I remember every single word on it."
The illusory hand suddenly paused.
After a moment of stillness, it slowly raised its head, and its slender fingertip gently touched Lin Yi's brow.
An indescribable warm current, like a flood bursting its banks, instantly rushed into the depths of his mind.
That was not power, nor information, but a memory that had been sealed away.
A melody he had long forgotten, belonging to before he was three years old—his mother sat by the bed, gently humming an old nursery rhyme, sunlight filtering through the window and casting dappled patterns.
The melody, the visuals, the forgotten warmth—it all felt so vivid, as if it had happened just a moment ago.
At the same time, deep within his mind, the ancient being who called himself "Ivan," and the long-silent whisper of the ley lines, for the first time, took on a clear and discernible rhythm, resounding like a grand bell, accompanied by the melody of a nursery rhyme:
“...Those who...return...do...not...appear...in...form...but...exist...forever...in...memory……”
A single word awakened me from my dream!
Lin Yi trembled violently, and a terrifying glint flashed in his eyes.
He understood, he understood completely!
Those so-called "returnees" are not spiritual entities in the traditional sense, nor are they the resurrected dead.
They represent a higher-dimensional form of existence—memory resonance!
They cannot truly walk in the sunlight, but in the moments when they are deeply remembered and intensely missed by their loved ones, they can briefly interfere with and participate in reality through some unknown law!
The misty hand of his mother is not the ghost of his mother, but the embodiment of the concept of "mother" in his memory!
An unprecedented fervor and sense of mission seized Lin Yi.
He wanted to verify this hypothesis; he wanted to ignite this tiny spark into a raging inferno!
He immediately launched a bold plan—"Anonymous Reply".
Through the “Night Listeners” organization, he appealed to survivors under the ruins of the city: Under the lights at night, write down what you want to say to your deceased loved ones, without sending it or signing it, just bury the letter in the soil of the site they visited most often in their lives.
This seemingly absurd act touched the softest spot in the hearts of the post-apocalyptic survivors.
The first responder was an elderly woman with white hair.
With trembling hands, she buried her late husband's treasured diary beneath the site of the old post office.
The diary was filled with trivial daily details, but it never mentioned his past as a soldier.
The next morning, the old woman went to the ever-burning memorial lamp as usual, only to be surprised to find a brand new diary in the place where the original diary had been buried.
The paper was yellowed with the patina of history. When you opened it, you saw the familiar, strong handwriting—it was her deceased husband's!
The contents inside were all things she had never heard of before: wartime memories of blood and fire, guilt towards comrades, and longing for her.
The old woman sat under the lamp, reading page by page, sometimes shedding tears, sometimes smiling.
Late at night, she closed her diary and chuckled softly at the empty night, "You old thing, you used to be so stubborn, why did you never say these things?"
That night, she had an incredibly vivid dream.
In her dream, her husband sat by her bedside, still looking as young as he did in his youth, gazing at her tenderly, and said, "I couldn't say it before, but now I can. Because finally, someone is listening."
This miracle, like a shot of adrenaline, was injected into the hearts of all the survivors.
Lin Yi then struck while the iron was hot and began to delve into the personal stories of each "Night Listener" volunteer.
He found the volunteer, Zhang Cheng, who was living with guilt.
Ten years ago, during an operation, his misjudgment led to the annihilation of the entire squad, with only him surviving by sheer luck.
For ten years, he didn't even dare to visit the cenotaph of his teammates.
Lin Yi didn't say much, but led him to the ruins of the air-raid shelter that had claimed the lives of his teammates.
Under the cover of night, Lin Yi lit a lamp and handed him a piece of paper and a pen: "Write down what you want to say, don't burn it."
Zhang Cheng's hands trembled like leaves in the wind. He held the pen for a long time before writing three words heavily on the paper: "I'm sorry." Then, like a child, he dug into the cold, damp soil and buried the paper deep inside.
The next day, when they returned to the air-raid shelter, an astonishing scene unfolded.
On the perpetually damp and seeping rock wall deep inside the cave, water stains had somehow coalesced into a line, spelling out seven clear characters: "We chose you to live."
With a "plop," the seven-foot-tall man knelt down, burying his head in the soil. The pain, regret, and longing that had been suppressed for ten years turned into a heart-wrenching wail at this moment.
Lin Yi didn't help him up. Instead, he silently hung the rusty bell and a bunch of golden wheat ears at the entrance of the air-raid shelter as a testament to this reconciliation that transcended life and death.
The incident continues to escalate.
On the seventh night, almost simultaneously, all thirty-seven archaeological sites in the city experienced a "reply" phenomenon!
Next to the buried letters, there was an extra, perfectly sealed reply.
The contents varied, some were just a few everyday words, others were long-forgotten stories, but without exception, none of them were signed.
Lin Yi checked all the replies one by one throughout the night.
He used his highest authority to compare the fiber composition of the letter paper and the chemical composition of the ink with the data in the historical archives.
The result was chilling—the paper and ink of each letter perfectly matched items from the era in which the deceased lived, something that modern technology could not possibly forge.
He understood.
The resonance of memories has established a stable and efficient cross-dimensional information channel on the ruins of this city.
The reason why the "signatures" are missing is that those "memory bodies" who have returned are unwilling to use their past identities to bind this new and equal dialogue.
They are no longer anyone's father, husband, or comrade-in-arms; they are simply "returnees."
The next morning, the sun rose.
Lin Yi returned to the old site of the letter-burning station and buried the envelope that had unlocked all his knowledge and belonged to his mother deep in the soil.
He personally erected a stone tablet there, with only one line of text inscribed on it: "This place is nameless, but some will return."
After doing all this, he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his heart.
He turned to leave, ready to embrace the new wave sweeping the city.
But just as he turned around, a sudden burning sensation came from the scar on his palm!
Lin Yi suddenly looked down and saw a drop of bright red blood seeping from the center of the hideous scar.
Blood rolled down and dripped onto the soil in front of the stone tablet. Instead of splashing, it strangely contracted and solidified the moment it hit the ground, turning into a plump, golden wheat seed with a faint glow on its surface.
A thought struck him, and he slowly squatted down, carefully burying the peculiar wheat seed in the soil in front of the monument with his fingertips.
He gazed at the land, as if he could penetrate the earth and see a landscape from another dimension, whispering in a voice only he could hear: "Mom, next time we meet, I'll show you the new wall we've built."
As soon as he finished speaking, deep within his mind, Ivan's vast and distant whispers of the ley lines, like the final judgment of an ancient god, slowly echoed:
"Civilization Unit 95... will... germinate within... the first interdimensional seed."
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