Before dawn, a misty fog enveloped the small courtyard paved with bluestone slabs.
Grandma Chen, her body hunched over, swept the bamboo broom she had used for many years across the ground, making a rustling sound that was regular and peaceful, like the pulse of an ancient village.
Suddenly, the vibration of the broom gave an unusual feedback, as if it had brushed against something alive.
Her movements faltered, and her cloudy yet deep eyes slowly lowered.
From the cracks in the stone slabs beneath my feet, a wisp of silver thread, finer than a spider's web and cooler than moonlight, slowly peeked out.
It was not an inanimate object; the light was like the breath of a living person, flickering and then flickering again, a total of three times, each time making the surrounding air seem to freeze for a moment.
Then, like a shy silver snake, it silently retreated into the shadows at the base of the wall.
There was no surprise on Granny Chen's face, only a calm acceptance.
She didn't say anything, but simply leaned the broom gently against the wall and turned to enter the kitchen, which was filled with the smell of cooking fires.
She scooped half a bowl of warm rice porridge from the pot; the porridge was thick and had a rich, grainy aroma.
She carried the bowl and walked steadily back to the courtyard. She squatted down, brought the rim of the bowl close to the crack in the stone, and with a flick of her wrist, the rice soup poured down slowly like a white ribbon.
The moment the soup seeped into the soil, a miracle occurred again.
The silver thread suddenly shot out from the crack in the stone, several times brighter than before. It was no longer a tentative probe, but rather carried a joyful intimacy, circling tightly around the bottom of the rough porcelain bowl. Its light flowed, as if performing some kind of silent ceremony of gratitude.
Then, it disappeared contentedly, leaving no trace.
Grandma Chen looked at the empty bowl, her wrinkled lips curving upwards into a smile that only she could understand.
The afternoon sun was warm and pleasant, making one feel weak in the knees.
Grandma Chen rummaged through an old cabinet in the corner of the yard, which smelled of camphor wood, and pulled out a bunch of old things that had been stored away for ages.
She carefully took out a pair of cloth shoes. The uppers were made of faded blue cloth, and the soles had been patched seven times. The stitches were fine, and the patches of different colors looked like medals of time.
The soles of the shoes were so thin that she could feel the texture of the ground, but she just couldn't bear to throw them away.
She sat on a small stool, stroking the surface of the shoe with her rough fingers, as if she were caressing a long-lost friend.
Suddenly, her gaze froze.
A tiny, almost imperceptible glint of silver flashed on the fabric at the toe of the shoe.
Immediately afterwards, a slender wisp of mycelium, shimmering with the same silvery light, emerged from the deepest shadow of the heavy wooden cabinet. Like a living tentacle, it gently wrapped around the toe of the old shoe, and then, with an irresistible force, gently pulled it outward.
Grandma Chen was stunned, but then that stunned look turned into a relieved smile.
She understood.
She bent down and, without hesitation, took off her new shoes, which she had only worn for a short time, and put on these old shoes that were almost worn through by time.
The moment her feet were fully inside the shoes, a warm current rose from the soles of her feet without warning, instantly spreading throughout her body. It felt like walking barefoot on a field ridge scorching hot in the spring sun—warm, grounded, and full of life.
She tried to take a step, landing silently, but felt her whole body become lighter.
Leaning on her cane, she slowly walked toward the old teahouse in the community that was always bustling with people.
She walked slower than usual along the way because the world she saw was undergoing changes that others could not perceive.
The century-old locust tree by the roadside has spiderweb-like silver patterns emerging from its gnarled roots, appearing and disappearing in the sunlight, outlining a path leading to the unknown.
Not far away, near the well platform, the thick moss seemed to have heard a silent command and automatically arranged itself into a perfect circle, the center of which shone brighter than the rest.
Even the water droplets dripping from the clothesline overhead, when they hit the ground, would create a short, fleeting streak of light on the ground.
She was neither surprised nor afraid.
Whenever she saw a new streak of light, she would stop and pause for a moment, whispering in a voice only she could hear, "Good farewell, good farewell." The moment her words fell, the previously flickering streak of light would miraculously stabilize, its radiance becoming more solid, as if it had received some kind of recognition and blessing.
The teahouse was as lively as ever.
The huge hand-drawn map of the community on the wall is the core of everyone's memory.
On the map, the two characters "Lin Yi" that were originally written in the most conspicuous vermilion have now faded by more than half, and the characters are blurred, as if they could be blown away by the wind at any moment.
Only the flower painted with silver powder next to the name remains dazzling.
Today, the word "light" that once puzzled countless people on the inside of the petals has been updated to eight characters: "Those who come after will walk on the light."
A group of children are gathered around a map, holding colorful chalk in their hands, excitedly drawing something on the map.
They were arguing about where the old locust tree roots outside the teahouse, the moss by the well, and those faint traces of light connected, and which path "Teacher Lin really walked" on.
Grandma Chen sat down in her usual spot in the corner, her cloudy eyes sweeping over the innocent and carefree faces.
She didn't try to correct the children's argument, but instead, she shakily took out a plum candy wrapped in oil paper from her worn-out pocket and gently placed it next to the map, directly below the wall flower.
“The path he walked,” she began slowly, her voice soft yet clearly drowning out the noise in the teahouse, “was never a line, but a place where even the wild grass seemed to light up.”
The children looked back at her, seemingly understanding but not quite, while the plum candy refracted an amber halo in the afternoon light.
Night comes suddenly.
Without warning, a torrential downpour began, with large raindrops pounding against the tiles. A pale flash of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by deafening thunder, as if it were tearing the entire sky apart.
Grandma Chen was startled awake from her sleep. She sat up abruptly, put on her coat, and walked barefoot to the window.
She looked toward the distant wetlands, her pupils suddenly contracting.
Above the dark, wetland, a net of light composed of countless silver threads was violently fluctuating and flashing. The streams of light, like a swarm of startled snakes, were frantically darting about, losing all order and filled with agitation and unease.
She didn't reach for the umbrella in the corner; instead, she picked up the old lantern by the door, opened the door, and resolutely stepped into the cold rain.
She walked barefoot, step by step, on the puddle-filled cobblestone path.
The rain was icy cold, but she didn't care.
With each step she took, she murmured the same three words: "I'm walking, I'm walking."
Strange things happened.
As she muttered and walked, strands of loose silver hair beneath the puddles of water seemed to find their center and began to gather towards her feet.
Where she walked, the previously chaotic stream of light visibly calmed down, and the rampaging "snakes" seemed to be gently combed by an invisible hand, becoming orderly and gentle again.
As the downpour subsided, leaving only a light drizzle, she stood at the edge of the wetland.
On the muddy ground, the solitary wallflower quietly bloomed in the mud and water. After being baptized by the storm, the flower stem not only did not bend, but stood even straighter. The silver veins on the flower stem were stable and bright, like a stabilizing needle.
Granny Chen slowly squatted down and placed the lantern in her hand next to the flowers. The dim yellow light and the cool silver light intertwined.
She gazed at the flower and whispered in a voice that sounded like a sigh, "You don't want people to remember him, you want people to remember how to walk."
The moment the words fell, it was as if a silent decree had spread throughout the entire land.
The silver veins on the roots, stems, and veins of all the wild grasses in the entire wetland lit up at the same moment!
The light stream no longer stubbornly converged around the Wallflower to form a monument of light, but resolutely changed direction, extending firmly in all directions and into the endless depths of the night, like countless roots eager to explore new worlds, venturing forward into the pitch-black night—as if patiently searching for the next person willing to look down at the road at dawn.
The night was deep, and the wetlands were silent after the rain, except for the outward-expanding net of light, which silently changed everything between the mud and puddles.
The morning mist is quietly spreading.
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