He strode towards the vast plain beyond the mountains, where abandoned railway sleepers loomed amidst the weeds, like a huge, forgotten skeleton.
In this desolate place, a strange life form is growing wildly.
Those are wall-whispering flowers, which should grow by clinging to walls, but now they spread wildly between the railway sleepers. Each petal has a strange metallic luster, and silver veins intertwine on the petals to form a net, like an electrical circuit or a nerve.
As the wind blows, the sea of flowers undulates, and silver light flows, as if the whole earth is breathing.
Without the slightest hesitation, Lin Yi walked straight into the depths of the sea of flowers.
Just as he approached, a wallflower in front of him suddenly bloomed without warning, its petals opening in a second, as if it had opened an eye to peer into the past.
Inside the heart of the flower, light and shadow flicker, revealing a clear scene: Granny Chen, her back hunched, leaning on her smooth wooden cane, is patrolling the village's pebbly path.
Her footsteps didn't come from the screen, but from underground, simulated by countless invisible mycelia vibrating in sync, so lifelike that even the dull thud of her cane hitting the ground was exactly the same.
This bizarre scene is enough to terrify any normal person.
Lin Yi didn't even lift his eyelids, as if he had only seen an ordinary wildflower by the roadside.
He slowly squatted down, his slender fingers gently stroking the cool, smooth flower stem.
"Now, can you choose what you want to remember?" His voice was very soft, as if he were asking a child who was just learning to speak.
The flower stem trembled violently, and the silver veins on the petals seemed to be injected with high-voltage current, causing their circulation speed to increase dramatically!
This wasn't a response to his question, but rather a confirmation of the fact to him in a more primal and definitive way.
They have awakened.
Lin Yi stood up and continued walking.
The torrent of memories no longer needs his guidance; it has begun to find its own course.
He passed by a long-abandoned primary school, where weeds on the playground grew taller than a person.
The rusty flagpole stands alone in the center, like a tombstone.
Lin Yi's gaze fell on the area beneath the flagpole, where there were faint signs of disturbance in the soil.
A rusty iron box corner was faintly visible beneath the grass roots.
On the surface of the tin box, one can still faintly make out the engraving: "Graduation Commemoration of the Class of 1953".
He didn't start digging. The will of this land no longer needed his command.
Before he finished speaking, the soil beneath his feet began to undulate.
Countless slender silver mycelia broke through the soil, wrapping around the iron box like living things, slowly but irresistibly dragging it out from decades of dust.
With a "click," the rusted lid was pried open by the mycelium.
It was empty; there were no medals, no photos, only a piece of paper, yellowed and brittle from the passage of time.
Lin Yi picked up the note, on which was a line of childish but strong handwriting: "The teacher said that a road will only live if people walk on it."
He gently placed the note back into the box, and the mycelium obediently retreated. The soil automatically closed up, burying the iron box again as if it had never existed.
That night, Lin Yi did not leave. He sat down by the playground and waited quietly.
As the moon rose high in the sky, a sudden and unexpected change occurred.
The silver veins on the veins of all the weeds on the playground were lit up at the same time!
Countless rays of light seeped from the blades of grass, like trickling streams, converging into a river, and finally outlining a huge, circular path on the playground.
The flow of light has a unique rhythm, slow yet unwavering, like the heartbeat of a sleeping person.
That was the route the students of the class of 1953 took every morning for their run.
The road has truly come alive.
The next morning, in the village.
As usual, Granny Chen carried her bucket to the beginning of the pebble path.
She was stunned.
Yesterday, the wallflower was only slightly open, but today, all the petals are fully unfurled, and the silver veins on them are incredibly bright and flowing, as if expressing an extreme joy.
She put down the bucket, squatted down in confusion, and gently stroked the flower stem with her wrinkled hand.
The moment she touched it, the damp soil on the ground was slowly pushed by the mycelium, forming a line of crooked but clearly legible words of light.
"Today, we will go in your place."
Grandma Chen was startled and froze on the spot.
She slowly raised her head and looked at the gray sky, a look of bewilderment appearing in her cloudy eyes for the first time.
Her unwavering belief over the decades has been what keeps her going.
Now, the world is telling her that it's not necessary.
"You... go in my place?" she murmured to herself, as if asking the flowers, or perhaps asking herself, "Then... I'll go do something else."
She stood up, and for the first time, didn't walk the entire path; instead, she turned and went back into the house.
At the bottom of a dusty box, she pulled out a sewing basket containing a neatly folded old military uniform.
That was the last set of clothes her husband wore when he went to the battlefield.
For the first time in decades, she picked up a needle and thread again and began mending the small, worn-out hole in her collar.
That night, Lin Yi stayed under the old locust tree at the entrance of the village.
As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt a change in the energy field around him.
At the base of the tree, countless tiny buds of light broke through the soil and grew wildly at a speed visible to the naked eye, weaving together to form a ring-shaped, semi-transparent wall of light that completely surrounded him in the center.
He remained motionless, allowing the wall of light to completely isolate him from the darkness of the outside world.
After the light wall took shape, the flow of silver veins on it became extremely slow and gentle, like the breathing of a loyal guard on night watch.
He reached out and tentatively touched the light barrier.
The sensation at my fingertips wasn't cold, but rather a strange, warm feeling.
Suddenly, he felt a warmth in his palm—a thread of light, thinner than a hair, extended from the inside of the light wall, gently wrapped around his fingertip, circled it once, and then shyly withdrew.
A barely perceptible smile appeared on Lin Yi's lips.
They no longer need me to confirm their presence. They have learned to offer companionship on their own initiative.
The next day, he continued on his journey, passing through a long-abandoned wild tea garden.
A particularly robust old tea tree on the hillside caught his attention.
At the base of the tree, a long-faded and white red cloth strip is wrapped around it. Despite the erosion from wind and rain, the words on it have been stubbornly preserved: "Grandma planted it, 1978".
He crouched down, his fingertips just touching the rough red cloth.
The mycelium beneath their feet began to boil again, surging out of the soil, wrapping around the strips of cloth, and slowly forming a line of the character "light" on the open ground beside them.
She said that this tea should be saved for those who come back.
Lin Yi remained silent for a moment, then untied the water bottle from his waist and solemnly poured the last drop of water into the roots of the tea tree.
The moment the water fell, a miracle happened.
The silvery veins of the wild grass in the entire tea garden suddenly shone brightly!
The light flowed down the hillside like a tide, forming a winding, miniature path, the end of which pointed precisely to the gate of Granny Chen's house in the village below.
It was a silent invitation, written by the entire land.
That night, Lin Yi did not keep the appointment.
He took out the tin box his mother had left behind under the tea tree.
The belongings inside had already been buried by him; at this moment, the box was empty.
He gently placed the empty box, which held all his past, under the roots of the tea tree.
As night deepened, the mycelium began to stir again. It did not glow, but silently wrapped around the tin box, slowly dragging it three feet underground, merging it into the memory of this land.
At dawn the next day, Lin Yi opened his eyes.
He saw that a brand new bud had sprouted from the branches of the old tea tree.
The tender shoots were incredibly green, brimming with vitality.
He approached and plucked the tender leaf.
Turn it over, and on the back of the leaf, countless silver lines, finer than spider silk, clearly form two characters.
Lin Yi.
It's not an imprint, not a brand, but something that grows from the veins of the leaf.
He, too, became a part of the memory of this land.
Meanwhile, back in the village, Granny Chen finally finished sewing the last stitch on her husband's military uniform.
She let out a long sigh of relief, looked up at the window, and saw the silver veins of the wall-talking flower in the yard suddenly flash, spelling out a new line of words in front of her.
"We remember the repairs you made."
Grandma Chen was stunned, and then she showed the first genuine smile in decades.
She gently stroked the flower stem, as if it were her own child: "Good, very good. Then tomorrow, I'll go and teach the village children how to plant flowers."
Dozens of miles away, Lin Yi put away the tea leaf, his mission seemingly complete.
This forgotten corner has found a way to continue itself.
He determined his direction and headed deeper and more desolate inland.
His footsteps trod through withered grass and boulders, finally stopping before a vast, nameless wetland.
The tall reeds grew in dense thickets, completely obscuring the road ahead.
Thick water vapor lingers year-round, permeating the air with a decaying yet primal aura, as if this were the edge of the world, the end of civilization.
All was silent, save for the eerie whistling of the wind blowing through the reeds.
Lin Yi stood motionless at the edge of the wetland.
He stopped.
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