A very slight tremor came from the ground beneath my feet. It didn't come from deep within the earth's crust, but rather seemed to be some kind of slumbering life being awakened by the footsteps, lazily turning over.
The soil before him, moist and black, had silently cracked open with a thin fissure.
There was no abyss in the crack; instead, a soft, silvery-white light shone through.
Immediately afterwards, countless silver mycelia, finer than a hair, spiraled out of the crack like living metal that had been given life.
They were not aggressive in the slightest, and their movements were so gentle as if they were afraid of disturbing the pervasive mist.
These mycelia intertwined and lifted, slowly pushing a palm-sized fragment out of the ground.
It was a fragment of a wall brick, its edges worn smooth by time, yet its surface was exceptionally clean.
Lin Yi's pupils suddenly contracted, and his heart felt as if it were being tightly gripped by an invisible hand.
He would never forget this brick until his death. It was the brick he and his mother had laid together to build the courtyard wall when he was a child, and on it was a crooked "home" character that he had secretly carved.
At this moment, the word "home" has long since disappeared, replaced by a character made of light that slowly emerges on the brick surface. Each stroke is composed of even smaller dots of light, steady and clear: "I heard every step you took."
These words were silent, yet more deafening than any thunderclap.
It was like a warm current, instantly shattering the icy dam that Lin Yi had already built in his heart.
He always thought of himself as a lonely traveler, trudging along a road no one knew, measuring a long-lost vow with his footsteps.
It turns out that all his exhaustion, all his perseverance, and even every heavy breath he took due to exhaustion were recorded and listened to.
He slowly squatted down, stretched out his slightly trembling hand, and touched the fragment with his fingertips.
Contrary to expectations of coldness, it instead provides a warm and gentle sensation close to the skin.
He stroked the line of words "light" for a long time, and finally his tense shoulders relaxed, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.
He lowered his head, facing the bricks, and whispered in a voice only he and the wetland could hear, "Then I should rest too."
After speaking, he carefully put the brick back in its original place.
As if receiving a command, the silver mycelium gently wrapped around the fragment again, slowly dragging it deep into the soil.
The crack healed, a final ray of silver light flashed, and the ground returned to normal, as if nothing had ever happened.
Lin Yi did not get up, but sat down cross-legged on the spot and gently closed his eyes.
He adjusted his breathing, which was initially rapid, then gradually became long and even, until finally, his breathing rhythm was completely synchronized with the frequency of the swaying reeds and the sound of the wind in the wetlands.
He seemed to transform into a stubborn rock, a plant, completely merging into this ancient and mysterious land.
Three days later, right where Lin Yi was sitting, a strange flower broke through the soil and quietly bloomed.
This flower was later called the "Wall Whisperer Flower".
Its flower stem is not made of grass or wood, but is transformed from a pair of well-worn old marching shoes, with the shoelaces turning into vines that spiral upwards and support the flower crown.
On the flower stem, countless silver veins are clearly visible, with light flowing steadily within them, like the blood vessels of the human body.
The petals are as thin as cicada wings, exhibiting a translucent grayish-white color, resembling a weathered wall.
Even more peculiar is the inner side of the petals. When the first rays of morning light pierce through the mist and shine upon them, a dynamic scene suddenly appears: a figure exactly like Lin Yi's back is walking step by step into the deeper part of the thick fog, the figure becoming more and more blurred.
The scene lasted only three seconds before vanishing like a dream.
In that instant, the entire vast wetland seemed to be awakened at the same time.
Every unassuming wild grass, every reed leaf tip, all shone with silver veins indistinguishable from those on the flower stems.
Countless beams of light converged from all directions. They did not touch the Wallflower, but instead formed a huge halo around it, sheltering the flower in the center.
The halo never fades, its light flickering day and night, its rhythm in sync with the breathing of all things.
This is not a cold tombstone, nor a sorrowful memorial; it is a grander declaration—coexistence.
Grandma Chen discovered all of this one morning.
She walks along the pebbled path, leaning on her old cane, a habit she's maintained for decades.
When her gaze passed over the reeds and fell upon the strange flower that had appeared out of nowhere, surrounded by a halo, a look of understanding flashed in her cloudy eyes.
She wasn't alarmed; instead, she moved even closer.
She noticed that today, the stem of this wall-flowering plant was leaning slightly towards a certain direction deep in the wetland, as if silently guiding her.
She crouched down shakily, her wrinkled hands gently stroking the flower stem that had been transformed from an old shoe.
On the ground, the dormant mycelium seemed to sense her kindness and became active again, slowly spelling out three words on the soil in front of her: "He rested."
Grandma Chen didn't speak, she just stared quietly at those three words.
She took out a small bamboo kettle from the cloth bag she carried with her; inside was freshly brewed tea that she had just made for herself.
She gently placed the water jug in front of the flowers, as a simple gesture of respect to the stranger who had "rested" there.
That night, the miraculous scene occurred again.
The teapot, which should have been left to steep until dawn, evaporated almost entirely on its own without anyone watching.
The remaining water droplets did not dissipate, but slid down the side of the pot, gathering on the ground to form a miniature path that meandered and ended right in front of the roots of the wall-talking flower.
The next day at dawn, when Granny Chen came to collect her kettle, she saw the trail of water.
She picked up the almost empty bamboo tube, and facing the flowers and the entire wetland, she said softly in an old but firm voice, "Then you rest well, I'll continue on my way."
Seven days later, a group of children returning from school ran playfully into the wetlands, hoping to pick some pretty reeds to take home as decorations.
Suddenly, a sharp-eyed boy pointed ahead and shouted, "Look! That flower looks different again!"
The children immediately gathered around.
Inside the petals of the Wall Whisper Flower, the figure walking towards the thick fog was no longer visible; instead, a completely new dynamic scene appeared: Lin Yi was squatting on the ground, carefully watering something with both hands. As he moved, countless silver mycelium surged from his palms, spreading across the ground and forming shimmering paths of light.
The images loop repeatedly, like a silent lesson.
The children were completely engrossed in watching.
One of the little girls, with pigtails, was the boldest. She imitated Grandma Chen and reached out her little hand to gently touch the flower stem.
The mycelium on the ground was touched again, slowly piecing together a new line of text: "He once did the same, teaching us to remember."
The girl looked at the words with a mixture of understanding and confusion, then glanced at the figure watering the flowers from behind.
She thought for a moment, then took out a cartoon water bottle that was half full from her little schoolbag, unscrewed the lid, and carefully poured the clear spring water onto the roots of the wall-flowering plant, just like in the picture.
The moment the water fell, it was as if some sacred switch had been triggered.
The entire wetland responded with a roar!
All the wild grasses, reeds, and unnamed shrubs suddenly shone brightly with silver veins, as bright as day!
The light was no longer a static circling, but transformed into billions of active streams of light, spreading precisely along the direction of the water the girl poured, instantly forming a winding, shimmering stream of light on the ground.
The scene was not like a magnificent miracle, but more like countless unseen little hands taking over the responsibility of watering from the "resting" adult, taking over the road that was not yet finished.
The news quickly spread throughout the community.
The next day, Grandma Chen was invited to the old teahouse in the community for tea. As soon as she entered, she saw that the huge, hand-drawn community map on the wall had been updated.
In the area representing "Unnamed Wetland", next to Lin Yi's name, there is a miniature wall flower carefully painted with silver paint.
Even more surprisingly, when someone approaches, a line of small words made of faint light appears on the inside of the petals: "The path he walked is now ours."
The people in the teahouse pointed at the map, their faces not showing sadness, but rather a solemn and proud expression.
Grandma Chen, leaning on her cane, slowly walked to the map.
She shakily pulled a plum candy wrapped in oiled paper from her faded pocket; it was a gift from her granddaughter yesterday.
She gently pressed the candy under the glass plate covering the map, directly opposite the small wall-whispering flower.
That evening, after the teahouse closed, a strange scene unfolded.
From within the wall, several strands of light, thinner than spider silk, silently emerged. They precisely located the plum candy, gently wrapping around it three times. The sweetness of the candy seemed to be absorbed, and the light strands glowed slightly before retracting back into the wall.
The next morning, the teahouse owner opened the door and was surprised to find that the map had automatically updated again.
Below Lin Yi's name, there was a line of delicate, light-themed text: "Those who come after will walk on the light."
That night, Granny Chen did not go to bed early.
She moved a rattan chair, lay back in her small courtyard, and quietly looked at the starry sky.
As she looked around, she suddenly realized that the earth was different tonight than usual.
Beneath the starry sky, a vast net of light, covering everything in sight, is quietly emerging, like the chest of a sleeping giant, its light and shadow rising and falling at an extremely slow pace.
The city lights in the distance appear as tiny as fireflies in the face of this network of light.
She was deeply shocked, and suddenly felt a faint warmth coming from the soles of her feet.
She looked down in surprise and saw a wisp of almost invisible silver light emerging from the ground, like a shy child gently wrapping around the sole of her old cloth shoes, conveying a silent and intimate response.
Chen Apo closed his eyes, but a slight smile appeared on his lips.
At that moment, she felt a sudden sense of clarity.
It turns out that none of us are the masters of light.
We are simply those who stop to water the plants along the path the light has traveled.
Deep in the remote wetlands, the silver veins on the stem of that solitary wallflower shone almost imperceptibly, and its petals trembled slightly in the night breeze—as if someone, in a peaceful sleep, had nodded with contentment.
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