256: Chapter 256 The Story Collector

Lin Que looked at him with a faint smile.

"Who are you?"

Popovich stared with wide eyes.

"Who I am isn't important; what's important is this thing."

Lin Que held the capacitor between two fingers and shook it against the sunlight.

"Mr. Popovich, the factory code on this hasn't even been worn down yet."

He flicked his finger lightly, pointing at the code on the capacitor.

"The information here says it was manufactured three years ago, but the solder joints are still new. If I'm not mistaken, you just stripped this off some old TV, didn't you?"

Lin Que lifted his eyelids; those eyes hidden under his messy hair didn't hold a hint of his usual gentleness.

"Using recycled electronic waste to pass off as original factory parts—the cost is less than two Marks, and you're flipping it for twenty-five times that," Lin Que said flatly.

Popovich's red, bulbous nose twitched twice, and the hand holding the screwdriver froze in mid-air.

His eyeballs rolled around as he glanced at the growing crowd of onlookers surrounding them,

then looked at the capacitor in Lin Que's hand, which seemed like a piece of evidence.

He shrunk his neck, and half of his previous arrogance instantly deflated.

"You... what nonsense are you talking!" Popovich blustered, but his voice was clearly weak.

"Are you fixing it or not?" Lin Que ignored his defense and simply tossed the old capacitor back into the box with a crisp clatter.

"Five Marks. Change it for a new transformer and clean out the dust."

Popovich swallowed hard, looked at the surrounding crowd that had begun to watch,

and then looked into Lin Que's emotionless eyes.

"Fine, fine, fine! Just my bad luck!" He snatched the radio away and picked up the screwdriver, grumbling.

"Young people nowadays don't know the first thing about being polite to their elders!"

Ten minutes later.

A clear folk melody drifted from the radio.

Mrs. Zola carried her recovered old friend as she walked home, her steps significantly lighter.

She occasionally stole glances at Lin Que beside her.

The kid still had that carefree, slacker look, carrying onions and humming an unknown tune; the intimidating aura from earlier had vanished completely.

"Meddler," Mrs. Zola muttered.

Lin Que shrugged:

"Can't help it, I'm poor. Fifty Marks is enough for me to eat potatoes for a month."

Mrs. Zola didn't speak.

As they neared the apartment building, she suddenly stopped,

and stuffed a paper bag she had been tightly clutching into Lin Que's arms.

"Take it."

"What's this?" Lin Que was stunned for a moment.

"Figs. Just picked. Those vendors tried to lie and say they were from yesterday—no way."

Mrs. Zola kept a stiff face and spoke bluntly, but her eyes drifted to the side.

"These things are too sweet; I don't like eating them."

Lin Que looked down at the bag of plump figs, still covered in dew, and smiled.

"Thanks, Mrs. Zola."

...

Late at night.

It started to rain in Sarajevo.

Lin Que sat at his desk, his phone screen glowing faintly.

【Fugitive Beethoven】: [Voice Message 59"]

He clicked the voice message; there was no speaking, only the sound of whistling wind and the faint, distant sound of a cello.

That was the wind beneath the ruins of the Berlin Wall.

Immediately after, a text message popped up.

【Fugitive Beethoven】: The wall here has been down for thirty years, but sometimes it feels like some things are still there. Master Lin, why do you think people build walls?

Lin Que listened to the wind and turned to look out the window.

In the curtain of rain, the white tombstones on the opposite hillside stretched out like an ocean.

On one side was a collapsed wall; on the other were upright monuments.

A strong creative impulse surged through his spine like an electric current.

He picked up his phone, took a photo of the cemetery outside the window, and sent it over.

【Mu Xia】: "Maybe."

【Mu Xia】: "Looking out the window just now, the rain washed the tombstones very white. Walls fall because they block the way; monuments remain because the living are afraid to forget."

After sending the message, he seemed to think of something and flipped open the notebook filled with notes.

The tip of his pen touched the paper, making a rustling sound.

The power regarding the yellow earth, regarding suffering, and regarding living was slowly taking shape.

This wasn't some divine masterpiece; this was grain dug out from the soil.

"Zzzt—"

The lightbulb in the hallway flickered twice and went out completely.

Mrs. Zola's sigh came from outside the door, accompanied by the helpless sound of slippers scuffing against the floor.

Lin Que closed his notebook and pushed open the door.

In the gloom, Mrs. Zola was looking up at the high ceiling lamp,

holding a spare bulb in her hand, her face full of exhaustion.

"Let me do it."

Lin Que didn't waste words; he went back to his room to fetch a chair and stepped up skillfully.

He unscrewed the old bulb and replaced it with the new one.

His movements were agile and smooth.

Click.

The switch was pressed, and warm yellow light instantly filled the entire hallway, dispelling the stale chill.

Mrs. Zola squinted to adjust to the light, looking at Lin Que as he jumped down from the chair; the lines on her usually stiff face finally softened.

"Come in," Mrs. Zola pointed toward her door.

"The oven just finished."

Ten minutes later.

Lin Que sat on the slightly sunken velvet sofa, holding a plate of steaming hot cinnamon apple pie.

The pastry was baked golden brown, and the sweet-tartness of the apples mixed with the aroma of cinnamon.

On a rainy night, it was a nuclear-level healing comfort.

Mrs. Zola sat opposite him, with the fat cat named Berger lying on her lap.

She didn't speak, just lifted the teapot to refill Lin Que's half-empty cup with hot tea,

her back, which was usually kept ramrod straight, now leaned softly into the sofa.

"Eastern boy."

Mrs. Zola pushed her glasses and her gaze fell on the notebook he had placed on the coffee table,

which was densely packed with square characters she couldn't understand.

"What exactly do you do? Don't tell me you're an onion merchant."

Lin Que swallowed the last bite of pie and wiped his mouth.

He didn't intend to lie, but he didn't feel like explaining anything about literary awards or bestsellers either.

"Me?" Lin Que smiled, pointed out the window, and then pointed around the room.

"I'm a story collector."

"A story collector?"

Mrs. Zola repeated the strange term.

She set down her teacup, her grey-blue eyes looking deeply at Lin Que as if getting to know this young man all over again.

After a long while, she took off her glasses, wiped the lenses with her apron, and her voice became somewhat distant.

"Then you've certainly come to the right place."

Mrs. Zola put her glasses back on, pointed at the floor beneath her feet, and then at the black-and-white photos on the wall.

"The stories in this house are more numerous than the tombstones on the hillside outside. As long as you aren't afraid of ghosts, and you aren't afraid of crying."

Lin Que leaned forward slightly, his eyes frighteningly bright.

"I'm not afraid of ghosts, Mrs. Zola. As for crying..."

He glanced at the repaired radio.

"Sometimes, only when you cry can you be considered to have truly lived."

Mrs. Zola was stunned for a moment, and the corners of her mouth, usually tight, finally revealed a very faint smile.

"Then listen well, boy.

The first story is about this radio, and a wedding that never happened..."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, but the light inside the room was intoxicatingly warm.

...