The familiar breakfast stall is right at the alley entrance, the rising steam mixed with the rich aroma of soy milk, a comforting sight in the mornings of this old city that has remained unchanged for decades.
However, today, as soon as Lin Yi approached, that sense of familiarity was broken by a subtle sense of disorientation.
"Xiao Lin, you're here?" The proprietress was busy packing for other customers when she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Without looking up, she called out to him.
Before Lin Yi could speak, she had already turned around nimbly, picked out two steaming hot vegetarian buns from the steamer, filled a bowl with piping hot soy milk, and carried them to the corner where he usually sat in one go.
What made his heart skip a beat was that the side dish was no longer the same old pickled vegetables, but a small handful of bright green and crisp pickled cucumbers.
This was exactly what he liked best, but he never said it aloud.
Lin Yi opened his mouth, but the words "Thank you, but how did you know..." got stuck in his throat.
The proprietress seemed to have eyes in the back of her head. She wiped her hands and laughed in her usual loud voice, "Hey, no need to thank me! Granny Chen next door said that you never look at people when you eat, but your chopsticks are the most honest."
Lin Yi was suddenly taken aback.
Grandma Chen?
He and the old man were merely nodding acquaintances and had never discussed their eating habits.
His gaze unconsciously drifted past the bustling alleyway and landed on the distant, silent ruins.
In that instant, he clearly saw a golden ray of light, more dazzling than the morning light and finer than a spider's web, quietly emerging from a crack in a broken wall and gently, in a very human way, swaying in his direction.
It was as if it were nodding, or as if it were saying: Yes, it's me.
Meanwhile, Granny Chen was walking home along the pebbled path, leaning on her cane.
This road is part of the ruins, smoothed by the passage of time, but also somewhat uneven due to foundation subsidence.
She walked slowly, each step firm and deliberate.
Suddenly, she stopped and listened intently.
A very faint, almost inaudible rustling sound came from underfoot.
She lowered her head in confusion, and a strange scene was reflected in her cloudy eyes.
At her feet, countless tiny, silvery-white mycelia were emerging from the cracks in the rocks, like a group of intelligent miniature worker ants, slowly and steadily moving a few pebbles blown away by the wind, rearranging them, and filling a tiny depression in the path.
The old man looked for a long time, but instead of panicking, he squatted down and gently tapped the ground with his wrinkled fingers. As if dealing with a mischievous junior, he asked softly in a consultative tone, "What's wrong? Do you think the road is uneven?"
The wriggling mycelium seemed to understand her words, and its movements suddenly stopped.
Then, with an incredibly fluid motion, they quickly gathered and extended, slowly forming a clear "是" (yes) character on the rough stone slab.
Grandma Chen stared at the Chinese character made up of living creatures for a moment, then couldn't help but laugh out loud, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothing out.
“You little rascals,” she shook her head, her tone full of affection, “are now better at managing the household than people do.”
Lin Yi's journey home was interrupted by a sudden downpour.
Large raindrops pounded on the bluestone slabs, splashing up dense sprays that instantly formed a white curtain of water.
He hadn't brought an umbrella and was about to rush towards the eaves of a nearby house in the rain when suddenly a bright light appeared above his head.
He looked up in astonishment.
The path of light that he had traversed countless times was now bursting with dazzling light.
Countless rays of light rose from the crack in the ground, like flexible umbrella ribs, arching upwards and intertwining to form a low and narrow corridor of light that perfectly enveloped him, shielding him from all wind and rain.
Inside the corridor, it was warm, dry, and so quiet that the only sound was the patter of rain outside.
Lin Yi tentatively took a step forward, his heart filled with shock.
He discovered that the height of the light corridor automatically adjusted according to his height, always maintaining a fist's distance from the top of his head.
There was a sizable puddle on the road ahead. Before he could get around it, the overhead light corridor had already anticipated this and bent to one side, planning the driest path for him.
He walked slowly through a private passageway made of light.
The rain was separated by an invisible force, as if he were walking in the Red Sea that Moses had parted.
When he reached the ground floor of the attic, the magical corridor of light silently collapsed, and the light threads retreated into the cracks in the ground like the receding tide, as if they had never existed.
The cold rain immediately soaked his shoulders.
He stood in front of the door, raindrops dripping from the old eaves. At his feet, instead of splashing wildly, the raindrops formed two clear, rhythmic welts, one by one.
fast forward.
That night, Granny Chen had a long dream.
She dreamt that she was walking on that pebble path again, but the path was no longer a path, but an endless river of light.
Along both sides of the road, the "wall flowers" made from old objects bloom in unison, their petals no longer displaying simple patterns, but whispering secrets.
That is not human language.
She listened carefully and then she could tell that it was a tapestry of countless sounds—the music of the sprinkler truck in the morning, the laughter of children chasing each other in the afternoon, the crisp sound of bowls and chopsticks clattering at dusk, the low breathing of lovers in the dead of night, and all the daily sounds of the city from waking up to falling asleep.
She woke up with a start, her heart pounding like a drum.
The night was deep outside the window, but she inexplicably turned on the old-fashioned lantern by her bedside and went out.
By the dim light, she saw the light trails of the distant ruins flickering with an extremely slow, yet rhythmic frequency.
The rhythm was exactly the same as the rise and fall of the sounds she heard in her dream.
At that moment, she understood completely.
Those dormant memories have learned to speak through "life" itself.
A few days later, while tidying up his bookshelf, Lin Yi accidentally discovered that the old book with silver-patterned grass leaves had opened by itself.
The book stopped on a blank page, but the page above it was no longer blank.
The lines of text seemed to seep out from deep within the paper fibers, carrying a texture like plant roots.
“Your mother didn’t make it back to the city, and you didn’t make it back to me either. But, the road has been found.”
The handwriting is not ink, nor is it a projection.
Lin Yi leaned closer to look, and his pupils suddenly contracted.
Those are words formed by tiny mycelia traveling and growing through the paper fibers, as if the book itself has grown a piece of memory.
He reached out, his fingertips gently tracing the rough yet vibrant handwriting, and then slowly closed the book.
Just as the book was about to close, the silver veins on the leaves of the inconspicuous weeds outside the window, under the courtyard wall, suddenly lit up, casting a soft halo that perfectly encircled the rattan chair he often sat in beside his bed.
That light was like a silent invitation, a gentle invitation.
It's like saying: You should sit here.
The next morning, just as dawn was breaking.
As usual, Granny Chen went out for a walk, but when she reached the beginning of the pebble path, she stopped again.
The wall-blooming flower, transformed from Lin Yi's old shoe, was slowly unfolding its petals in the soft light of dawn.
Inside the petals, the once blurry footprint has vanished, replaced by a line of extremely fine writing made of light:
Good morning. Today, and also the past.
As soon as he finished speaking, the threads of light along the entire path lit up gently, no longer for illumination or guidance. They simply sat there, rising and falling, flickering quietly, as if taking a grand and silent breath.
Meanwhile, in the attic in the east of the city, Lin Yi was shaving in front of the fogged-up mirror in the bathroom.
The razor slices through the foam, leaving clean lines of skin.
The moisture on the mirror had not completely dissipated, but a line of wetness suddenly appeared in the very center.
It wasn't formed from his breath; the strokes were clear, the force as sharp as if carved with a knife, and it felt as familiar as the lines on his own palm.
"The path you walk will outlive your name."
Lin Yi stared at the words, his eyes remaining completely unmoved.
He calmly picked up a towel, wiped the water vapor off the mirror, including the words, and then continued shaving the last bit of stubble on his chin, as if nothing had happened.
After everything was tidied up, he changed into clean clothes.
The outside world has awakened from its slumber, and the sounds of commotion can be faintly heard through the window.
He took a deep breath and opened the attic door.
The morning light outside seemed brighter and more... eager than ever before.
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