It was a heavy sense of oppression, as if the storms of the entire town over the past century had condensed into a tangible weight, pressing down on her heart.
Xiaoman took a deep breath. The damp air was filled with the smell of old wood and old book pages. She followed behind Granny Chen and stepped into the creaking wooden door of the community library.
The light here is much dimmer than outside, and the tall bookshelves, like silent giants, divide the space into narrow passageways.
The children's curiosity was instantly ignited, and they immediately scattered, their little hands gently tracing the dusty spines of the books, leaving fresh fingerprints.
"Grandma, where should we start looking?" Xiaoman lowered her voice. This place had a magical power that made people unconsciously quiet down.
Grandma Chen didn't answer. She just looked around with her cloudy but all-seeing eyes. Finally, her gaze settled on the deepest corner, an almost forgotten area.
There stood a dark brown old-fashioned filing cabinet, made of camphor wood, the most common yet sturdiest wood in town, with long-faded cloud patterns carved on its surface.
“Go there.” Grandma Chen’s voice carried an undeniable certainty.
Xiaoman nodded and led the children to follow.
The closer you get, the stronger the ancient aura becomes, as if you are passing through a time tunnel.
She crouched down and tried to pull open the bottom drawer, only to find it was stuck tightly.
Just as she was about to exert even more force, she caught a strange glint in the corner of her eye.
In the gap between the filing cabinet and the floor, less than a finger's width wide, a few strands of silver thread, finer than spider silk and more agile than mercury, were slowly moving like living vines.
Their goal was clear: they were persistently entangled with a booklet that had slipped out from the gap at the bottom of the cabinet.
The booklet had no cover, and the edges of the yellowed pages were torn, as if it would crumble into dust at the slightest touch.
Xiaoman's heart skipped a beat.
She held her breath, carefully extended her fingers, gently pinched the spine of the booklet, and tried to pull it out.
Surprisingly smooth, the silver thread seemed to sense her intention and instead of hindering her, it loosened its grip slightly, allowing her to take out the booklet effortlessly.
Upon holding the booklet, a strange, warm sensation emanated from my fingertips, completely unlike the dryness of ordinary paper.
By the dim light streaming in through the high window, she could make out the large characters written in calligraphy on the title page—"Bridge Repair Log of the Year of Bingwu".
The moment her gaze fell upon the words, something even more astonishing happened.
On the corners of the booklet, where the silver threads had been wrapped around the pages, several faint silver veins seeped out from the inside of the paper, flowing slowly on the withered yellow paper like the blood vessels of a living creature, emitting an almost invisible glimmer.
She instinctively turned to the first page.
An indescribable scent wafted over me; it wasn't the smell of ink, nor the stench of decaying paper, but rather a mixture of earth, sweat, and perseverance.
Immediately afterwards, from the gaps in the pages, a few barely visible mycelium-like substances slowly emerged. They intertwined and wandered in the air, eventually piecing together a line of crooked little words before her eyes: "His writing also wants to walk."
With a deafening boom, it felt as if a thunderclap exploded in Xiaoman's mind.
She instantly recalled that torrential afternoon when Li Shouyi, with his hunched back, carried heavy stones like a mountain, step by step, toward the dilapidated old bridge.
Every step he took was like writing a solid stroke on this road with his life.
So that's how it is... I see!
A sudden surge of warmth welled up in her heart, and a powerful emotion welled up within her.
Instead of panicking and closing the book like most people would, she did something that surprised everyone.
She unscrewed the water bottle she carried with her, tilted the spout, and carefully dripped a drop of water onto the edge of the book page.
She wasn't trying to water them, but to guide them.
The water droplet didn't immediately soak through the paper. Instead, like a dewdrop imbued with life, it slowly "walked" along the natural texture of the paper and the lines of ink.
It has gone through "starting construction", "laying the foundation", "wind and rain", and every word that records hardship and dedication.
A miracle was born along the path of the spreading water.
Wherever the water touched, each ink character shimmered with a dazzling silver light.
These rays of light are no longer confined to the paper; they break free from their constraints and extend along the strokes of the writing, weaving together in mid-air to form a brief yet three-dimensional projection of light paths!
It was a group of blurry figures, carrying heavy timber and stones, struggling forward in the torrential rain.
The scene is silent, yet you can almost hear the howling wind and rain and the heavy breathing of the people.
Their movements and postures gradually overlapped with Li Shouyi's figure.
The children gathered around, their eyes wide, their little hands covering their mouths, forgetting even to breathe.
What they saw was not some special effects, but a vivid and real memory sealed in words!
“They are not shadows,” Xiaoman’s voice was soft, yet carried an unprecedented firmness and sacredness, “They are part of the road.”
Granny Chen, who had been standing silently to the side, also had tears welling up in her eyes.
But what she saw was far more than just the children.
In her vision, as the journal was activated, silver lines quietly appeared on the floor of the entire library. They extended from beneath the journal, connecting the bases of the bookshelves, the legs of the tables and chairs, and even the ancient door frames, eventually converging into a vast and complex network of paths, like the bloodline map of the entire town.
She slowly took out the wrapper of the plum candy, which had long since lost all flavor, from her inner pocket.
That thin, weathered candy wrapper was her last memory of her husband.
She walked over to Xiaoman, gently took the "Bridge Repair Log," turned to the last page, and carefully slipped the candy wrapper inside.
The moment the candy wrapper touched the pages, the whole book shuddered violently!
Countless silver threads burst forth from the spine of the book, tightly wrapping around it three times, emitting a faint sound similar to that of a bell or chime.
Immediately, all the silver threads, along with the candy wrapper, sank deep into the pages and disappeared.
Like a long-lost memory, it has finally found its home and is solemnly archived.
That night, the library was completely empty.
The cool moonlight shone through the carved window lattice and onto the filing cabinet in that corner.
The "Bridge Repair Log of the Year Bingwu" lay quietly on the top of the cabinet, untouched, yet it began to turn its pages automatically.
Splash—
With each page turned, the silver patterns on the page would briefly light up, like twinkling stars, illuminating fragments of the past that had been sealed away, before quickly fading away again.
Page after page, like a silent storyteller reminiscing alone under the moon.
When the last page was turned and the book was gently closed, all the light was dimmed, and it returned to its simple and unremarkable appearance.
The next morning, the elderly caretaker opened the door as usual.
As he walked to the vicinity of the filing cabinet to clean, he stopped in his tracks.
To his surprise, he discovered that not only that journal, but all the booklets, drawings, and manuscripts in the entire bookcase related to "construction," "road repair," and "old craftsmen" had a faint silver light seeping from the corners of their pages, flickering like a heart at an extremely slow frequency.
He paused for a moment, but his face showed no fear; instead, a knowing smile appeared on his face.
He didn't make a fuss, but went back to the front desk and wrote a line in an old-fashioned fountain pen on the thick borrowing register: "Someone came by today."
Time flows on, and it's Qingming Festival.
Everything in the town was shrouded in a light drizzle.
However, at a certain specific moment, something unexpected happened!
The light path made of shoelaces in the wetland park, the ridges of the terraced fields made of nails, the sleepers of the abandoned railway made of teacup fragments, the bridge body of the stone bridge over the river made of brooms, and the huge knowledge network in the community library—these five light networks flashed on and off three times in the same instant!
The light pierced through the rain and illuminated the sky, as if this ancient land were taking a deep and powerful breath.
In the wetland park, Xiaoman was leading the children barefoot along the shimmering light path.
A warm energy flowed from the soles of my feet, washing away all my fatigue and chill.
Not far away, Granny Chen sat quietly in a rattan chair.
She looked up at the sky, where the stars were exceptionally clear after the rain.
In her eyes, the net of light on the earth flowed as always, with a steady and powerful rhythm, as unchanging as the movement of the stars.
She stretched out her wrinkled hand and gently stroked the old cloth shoes beside her, which had long been empty, her heart filled with clarity.
He didn't disappear; he became the road.
We are not inheritors; we are the path itself.
Meanwhile, in countless unknown corners of the world, one after another, strange "wall-whispering flowers" are quietly blooming where no one knows.
Their flower stems are made from scattered shoelaces, rusty nails, torn pages, empty teacups, and worn-out brooms.
On the flower stem, silver veins steadily flow with the radiance of life; delicate petals tremble gently in the breeze, as if silently telling the world, and all those who come after:
Those who come later are walking on light.
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