The ripples from the old map spread faster and deeper than Lin Yi had imagined.
It was like a pebble thrown into a stagnant pool, not only creating waves but also stirring up the silt that had been dormant for many years.
After the initial fervor subsided, a quieter digging began.
People are no longer just chasing after some vague "treasure," but are turning to the bottom of their own coffers.
The dusty wooden crates and locked iron boxes were opened one by one, as if unlocking forgotten moments of time.
The yellowed, faded letter, with its blurred handwriting, still reveals the longing and struggles of our ancestors during those war-torn years.
The rusty old family crest, after being wiped clean, still shines with its former glory and perseverance.
What is most moving are the diaries hastily written during the war. The paper is fragile, but the contents are full of power—resentment towards the enemy, confusion about the future, and even more so, the longing for a full meal and a peaceful night's sleep in desperate situations.
For a moment, the entire gathering place was immersed in a complex emotion.
The past glories and sufferings, through these rough old objects, transcend time and space, resonating with the survivors of today.
Some suggested that these precious family heirlooms be collected and put on an exhibition so that everyone could see the stories of their ancestors.
But Lin Yi rejected it.
He didn't organize, didn't promote, and certainly didn't hold any grand exhibitions.
He simply cleared out a corner of the mill, moved in a few old tables and chairs, lit a gentle oil lamp, and named it "Quiet Reading Corner".
All unearthed artifacts can be discreetly placed here with the owner's permission.
There are no administrators or narrators; anyone can walk in at any time, find a seat in a corner, and quietly browse through the pages.
There were no rousing speeches here, only the rustling of papers turning and the crackling of oil lamps burning.
What people read here is not a grand historical narrative, but the real joys and sorrows experienced by individual people in specific times and spaces.
A blacksmith's son, through his father's diary, for the first time understood the tender protection his father's rough, calloused hands held for his family.
A girl who always complained about the monotony of food fell silent for a long time after reading her great-grandmother's record of being overjoyed by half a cornbread in a wartime letter home.
This silent communication is more powerful than any preaching.
The incident occurred on the seventh day.
A young man walked into the "quiet reading corner".
He is famous because he raised objections clearly and forcefully in three important deliberations at the gathering place, each time with strong words and clear logic.
He is seen by some as a “sober dissident” and by others as a “troublesome troll”.
He didn't look at the old things, but went straight to the mill's stove.
There, the flames licked the firewood, providing warmth for the evening's communal dinner.
Amidst the astonished gazes of the crowd, he pulled out a stack of cards from his pocket.
That was his "dissent record card," which was densely filled with his reasons and arguments for opposing various resolutions.
He once regarded these cards as badges of honor for his independent thinking.
He threw the cards into the blazing stove, one by one.
The paper instantly curled up, turned black, and turned into ashes.
The firelight illuminated his young face, and his eyes, which always gleamed with a defiant light, were now filled with an unprecedented calm.
As the last card turned to ashes, he turned around, his voice not loud, but clearly reaching everyone's ears: "I no longer want to prove my existence by opposing others."
The entire mill was deathly silent.
Just then, Lin Yi took a blank scroll that had been prepared beforehand from the high beam and hung it vertically on the most conspicuous beam in the mill, the scroll almost touching the ground.
He said to the crowd, “From today onwards, anyone who wishes to leave a message here using their real name may do so. There will be no categorization, no ordering, and no commentary.”
The crowd stirred, people whispered among themselves, but no one stepped forward.
On the first day, the scroll was as white as new.
The next day, there was still no word.
People seemed to be still hesitant and watching, wondering what new trick Lin Yi had up his sleeve this time.
On the third day at dusk, a blind child with his eyes covered by a black cloth tapped the ground with his cane, groped along the wall, and walked step by step to the long scroll.
He stretched out his little hand, dabbed some ashes mixed with dust on the ground, then stood on tiptoe and pressed a small, black handprint firmly at the very bottom of the scroll.
This silent action was like turning on a switch.
A moment later, a girl who had always been quiet stepped forward, picked up a charcoal pencil hanging to the side, and wrote a line of delicate handwriting next to the handprint: "I object, because I fear that silence is heavier than error."
Immediately afterwards, a weathered old farmer wrote with trembling hands: "I agree, but I have also missed out."
More and more people stepped forward, leaving their names and a message.
Those words were no longer simply about taking sides, nor were they just heated slogans.
They are filled with introspection, confusion, hope, and struggle.
Next to the "Quiet Reading Corner," Chu Yao, who had been sitting quietly with her eyes closed, suddenly opened them.
Deep within her pupils, it seemed as if countless streams of data were flashing by.
She turned to Lin Yi, her voice tinged with surprise: "I sensed a completely new form of brainwave resonance... I call it 'non-confrontational presence.' They... they no longer confirm their identity by taking sides."
Almost simultaneously, Ivan's cold electronic voice, emanating from the depths of the earth, clearly rang in Lin Yi's mind: "Warning lifted. Sociology Node No. 86... has completed its final round of questioning."
However, Lin Yi's tense nerves did not relax in the slightest.
He keenly sensed that a new, more subtle form of inertia was quietly growing among the people.
Those who were the first to leave messages on the scroll, especially those who wrote words of opposition or reflection, began to reveal a subtle sense of superiority in their eyes.
It's as if "I was once a minority" itself has become a new, invisible medal.
Lin Yi remained silent and took out an old metal plaque from his bag.
It was awarded to him by his former mentor, and it was engraved with his name and the title of "Chief Researcher".
Under everyone's watchful eyes, he picked up a charcoal pencil and forcefully and repeatedly blackened the area of his name on the nameplate until the characters were completely illegible.
Then he walked to the scroll and used an iron nail to firmly nail the blackened nameplate to the top of the scroll.
“A name is a signpost, not a trophy,” he said calmly.
These words struck like a heavy hammer blow to everyone's heart.
That night, a dark figure quietly sneaked into the mill.
That person was the young man who burned the dissent card.
He stared at the sentence he had written on the scroll, hesitated for a long time, and finally reached out and carefully tore off his name and half of the sentence.
On the tattered piece of paper, only the second half of the sentence remained: "...But I don't want to be remembered as the one who was always in opposition."
The next morning, Lin Yi discovered the damaged area.
He said nothing, but took down the long scroll and used scissors to cut all the names and words on it, along with the tattered piece, into tiny pieces the size of a fingernail.
He mixed these scraps of paper into the new season's wheat seeds, walked to the field ridges outside the mill, and facing the rising sun, scattered these seeds, a mixture of hope, confusion, pride, and regret, across the ridges in all directions.
Some people asked him, puzzled, why he did this.
Lin Yi patted the dirt off his hands and said only one sentence: "Some words are meant to grow in the earth, not hung on the wall for people to see."
Seven days later, a miracle happened.
On a ridge near the edge of the "quiet growth zone", new seedlings are sprouting.
But one ring of wheat seedlings presented a completely different appearance—their stems were a deep purple, while the awns at the top shimmered with an unusual, dazzling gold.
With its purple stem and golden rays, it appears both eerie and sacred in the morning sunlight.
Even more bizarrely, their growth trajectory vaguely outlines a huge, blurry shape, like an open handprint.
"Look! Words are growing out of the ground!" a sharp-eyed child exclaimed.
A crowd quickly gathered, discussing the unusual wheat field.
Lin Yi parted the crowd, squatted down, parted the purple wheat seedlings, and carefully observed the soil where their roots were intertwined.
Amidst the tangled roots, he saw a sight that made his pupils shrink—the mixed seeds, seemingly drawn by an invisible force, spontaneously arranged themselves into two words deep in the soil: I don't.
Lin Yi stood up, his face revealing no emotion.
He didn't explain anything to the crowd, but simply erected a small wooden sign by the field, on which was written in charcoal: "No one speaks here, but the land remembers."
In the dead of night, all was quiet.
Lin Yi sat alone under the lamp. The glass lampshade on the table was empty. The firefly that had once guided him had long since disappeared after fulfilling its mission.
He took out a crystallized wheat flower from his pocket, the very one that had broken and fallen to the ground that night in the center of the "Quiet Life Zone" due to energy overload.
At this moment, it has been restored to its original state, crystal clear, like a perfect work of art.
He gently stroked the cool heart of the wheat flower with his fingertips.
Suddenly, a flash of light appeared inside the wheat flower, and countless tiny names, as small as dust particles, emerged and flowed within it.
Lin Yi recognized that those were the names of all those who had left their names on the scroll, as well as those who had torn their names off or never left their names at all.
The flower's center shone brightly, and then the entire crystallized wheat flower gently floated up, passed through the window, and rose into the deep night sky, transforming into a distant star.
Ivan's last whisper seemed to come from the depths of the earth, heavy and final: "Cognitive Unit 86... has learned to be silent."
In the wind, Chu Yao's intermittent voice drifted over, carrying a hint of unprecedented confusion: "A new signal... Unit 87... It's waiting for someone... who doesn't want to be understood."
Lin Yi raised his head, gazing at the point of light that was gradually merging into the starry sky, and murmured to himself.
"This time, it's my turn to go first."
The wheat ears, with their purple stems and golden awns, swayed in the wind at the edge of the "quiet growth zone," growing stronger day by day.
Every day, the children would gather around the edge of the field, curiously observing the peculiar plants. Gradually, they gave this unusual wheat field a name.
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