That small plum candy became the final token of love.
As Granny Chen's figure disappeared into the morning mist, the silver threads around the candy seemed to receive some kind of permission, their light suddenly intensifying before receding into the ground like a receding tide.
The entire railway track fell silent again, as if everything before had been just Xiaoman's illusion.
But Xiaoman knew that wasn't the case.
She could feel the pulse of the sleeping land beneath her feet becoming stronger and more powerful than ever before.
It is no longer a single line, but a network quietly woven underground, spreading deeper and further into the city in a way she cannot yet comprehend.
As night fell, strange phenomena began to occur.
The entire abandoned railway track began to flash on and off in unnoticed darkness.
The silvery luster was no longer a thread, but transformed into a flowing film of light, covering every inch of the rusty metal.
The undulations of the light had a peculiar rhythm, sometimes rapid, sometimes gentle, like a giant heart beating steadily deep within the earth.
The wind blows, carrying no longer sobs, but fragmented, indistinct melodies—the oldest songs of this road.
This bizarre scene was accidentally captured on a mobile phone by a few young people speeding at night. The video caused a small stir on the internet with a sensational title: "Ghost Tracks in the City, Midnight Breathing".
But soon, the video was overwhelmed by more sensational celebrity gossip, leaving only a few curious onlookers arguing in the comments section whether it was a lighting effect or some kind of phosphorescence phenomenon.
Nobody took it seriously.
Except for Xiaoman.
She didn't see the light that night, but she dreamed about it.
She dreamt of countless feet stepping across the railway tracks she had just "awakened."
There were railway workers in heavy work boots, their steps heavy yet firm, each step making the sleepers groan with satisfaction; there were barefoot children chasing and playing on the tracks, their laughter as crisp as summer wind chimes; there were elderly people leaning on canes, walking unsteadily, each step seeming to be a farewell to bygone days; and there were travelers carrying their bags, hurrying along, their eyes filled with both longing and uncertainty for the distant future…
These footsteps, spanning a century, intertwine to form a magnificent symphony.
They weren't stepping on railway tracks, but on the keys of time.
In her dream, Xiaoman became one of them. She could clearly feel every vibration and every emotion—sweat, tears, anticipation, farewell—all flowing into her body from the soles of her feet and eventually into her heart.
That was no longer someone else's memory; it had become a part of her.
As dawn broke, Xiaoman awoke from this grand yet exhausting dream, her heart still pounding.
Without even washing up, she burst out of the door and ran frantically toward the abandoned railway tracks.
In the soft light of dawn, the sight made her hold her breath for a moment.
The road spike she regarded as a "beacon" was no longer deeply embedded in the soil.
It was lifted up by countless thick silver threads from below, raising it by more than half an inch.
What's even more peculiar is that the top of the spike, which was originally flat, curves slightly downwards, forming an elegant arc.
That posture was like someone bowing deeply, paying her the most humble and solemn respect.
Xiaoman stared blankly, her eyes welling up with tears, finally finding an outlet for the turbulent emotions that had been building up all night.
She stepped forward, extended her trembling hand, and gently stroked the bent nail head, as if stroking a long-lost friend.
“I understand,” she murmured, a bright smile spreading across her lips. “I always thought you were the end of the road, a forgotten destination. But it turns out you’re not… You’re not the end, you’re the beginning of every story.”
The memory of this land was not awakened by her, but rather it chose her as the new storyteller.
In her joy at this new life, she was unaware that the underground silver network, with the railway tracks as its main artery, was expanding at a speed far exceeding her imagination.
Like a self-aware living entity, it frantically explores, extends, and connects along the forgotten old paths of the city.
It traverses dried-up old riverbeds, bypasses filled-in air-raid shelters, and avoids newly built subway lines, precisely searching for those "relics" that also carry heavy memories.
At this moment, on the outskirts of the city, beneath an abandoned stone bridge long forgotten, the stream has long since dried up, and the riverbed is overgrown with weeds as tall as a person.
The bridge was covered with moss and vines, making it look gloomy and dilapidated.
At the base of the thickest pier of this stone bridge, a silver thread, thinner than a hair, is slowly climbing upwards, breaking through the hard, cracked riverbed.
Its movements were extremely subtle, like a cautious little silver snake, leaving an almost invisible wet trail on the rough stone surface.
Its goal was clear: it climbed straight towards an old stele embedded in the stone wall on the side of the bridge pier.
It was a blue stone tablet, weathered by wind and rain, the inscriptions now blurred.
However, upon closer inspection, one can still barely make out four powerful characters: "Never Falling for a Century".
This was once the pride and promise of the bridge builders, but now it lies forgotten amidst weeds, a truly ironic sight.
The silver thread finally reached the edge of the stone tablet.
It did not stop, but like a fingertip with a sense of touch, gently, with a hint of reverence, touched the first stroke of the character "百" (hundred).
In that instant, the dust and moss covering the stone tablet faded away at a speed visible to the naked eye, starting from the strokes of the inscription and receding into the very light.
Then, the silver threads began to wander, using their own bodies to trace the engravings on the monument stroke by stroke.
It passed through "hundred", "year", and "not", and finally stopped at the last stroke of the character "倒".
After the entire phrase "standing for a hundred years" was completely outlined with silver threads, a faint, long sigh seemed to come from deep within the stone tablet.
Meanwhile, Xiaoman, far away on the other side of the city, is immersed in a spiritual resonance with the railway tracks.
She suddenly felt a pang in her heart, as if the web of memories she had opened had successfully connected to a huge and ancient new "node" in a distant place.
The feeling was like a long-silent lighthouse suddenly lighting up on a pitch-black map.
She raised her head blankly and looked towards the distant suburbs.
She didn't know what was there, but a strange sense of attraction, a heavy call from ancient stones, was quietly reaching her heart, transcending the city's hustle and bustle.
Meanwhile, in the city center's urban renewal office, project manager Wang Jianguo was irritably tapping on the table.
Before him lay a massive blueprint for development.
On the blueprint, the red blocks representing the new commercial complex resemble a greedy beast, devouring large swathes of gray land on the city's edge.
His finger was pointing at an area marked "to be demolished".
There, a thin dotted line represents the abandoned railway tracks, and not far away, next to an inconspicuous icon, are three small words: "Old Stone Bridge".
“This area must be cleared by next month,” he said into the phone, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Whether it’s that broken railway or that broken bridge, they’re historical junk. Don’t talk to me about preservation value. Only by bulldozing them can new value emerge!”
The person on the other end of the phone immediately agreed.
Wang Jianguo hung up the phone, downed a cup of cold coffee in one gulp, and his gaze returned to the stone bridge icon on the blueprint that was about to turn to dust, his eyes as cold and hard as iron.
Amidst the overgrown weeds, the silver thread that had completed its mission did not fade away.
It lies prostrate on the inscription "Standing for a Century," its faint yet persistent light shining like a beacon in the darkness, patiently waiting for the one who can truly understand it to come and keep their appointment.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com