521: Chapter 521 Those people in the capital won't be able to sleep well.

In mid-November in Muchuan Town, autumn sank into the mountain fog, so cold that even the old wood exuded dampness.

At seven in the morning, the fog had yet to disperse, and Lin Que carried his packed luggage down the guesthouse stairs.

The old wooden planks creaked when stepped on, just like every morning for the past month.

He turned the corner and walked familiarly into Old Liu's noodle shop.

At this hour, the fire on the stove was already roaring.

White steam billowed from the iron pot, and the unique sour aroma of hulu noodle soup wafted out from the half-open window.

Lin Que sat down at his usual spot against the wall.

"Uncle Liu, the usual."

Old Liu didn't respond.

He stood with his back to Lin Que, his apron stained with flour and oil, his movements slower than usual.

The spatula scraped against the iron pot with a dull sound.

In less than five minutes, the bowl was served.

Lin Que took one look, and his hand stopped on his chopsticks.

The noodles in the bowl were different.

The plain hulu noodle soup that usually only had chopped green onions and chili oil was gone.

Today, the bowl was covered with a thick layer of beef slices, neatly cut, saucy and glistening, with the texture of fascia visible on every piece.

In the center of the meat rested two golden fried eggs, their edges slightly charred, the yolks still with that soft-boiled curve.

The broth had changed, too.

It wasn't the usual clear, bland pickled vegetable soup, but a beef bone broth that must have been stewed for who knows how many hours, with a layer of finely dispersed oil droplets floating on top.

The portion of the entire bowl of noodles was nearly double the usual amount.

Lin Que looked up.

"Uncle Liu, why is the noodle soup different today?"

Old Liu wiped his hands on his apron a few times without turning his head.

"Eat while it's hot."

He draped the rag over his shoulder and turned to clear the bowls and chopsticks from the neighboring table, deliberately stepping heavily, as if to block Lin Que's follow-up questions with the sound.

At the tables nearby sat three or four townspeople who ate breakfast here year-round.

They, too, had stopped their chopsticks.

Grandpa Wang, who sold salt, held his bowl and looked over from above the rim, his cloudy eyes filled with a gentleness that he wasn't very good at expressing.

The grocery store owner chewed on a steamed bun, glanced at Lin Que, lifted the corners of her mouth, and then quickly lowered her head.

No one spoke.

The only sound in the noodle shop was the surging steam on the stove.

Lin Que withdrew his gaze and picked up his chopsticks.

When the first mouthful of noodles, coated in the rich broth, entered his mouth, he chewed very slowly.

The umami of the beef bone broth suppressed the inherent sourness of the hulu noodle soup, and the beef was stewed so tender that it melted at a touch.

The charred edges of the fried eggs had a slight bitter fragrance, and when mixed with the noodles, the texture was incredibly substantial.

This bowl of noodles was more hearty than the mountain vegetables he had eaten at the old restaurant in An City.

Lin Que finished the entire bowl of noodles quietly.

He even tilted the bowl to drink every last drop of the soup.

At the bottom of the bowl lay a few goji berries, dark red.

He placed the bowl back on the table and stood up.

Old Liu was bent over at the next table, clearing bowls, his back to him.

Lin Que took out five one-hundred-yuan bills from his inner jacket pocket, folded them neatly.

He placed them together with a note that read "This month, many thanks, Uncle Liu" under the empty bowl.

The bowl was inverted, so it couldn't be seen from the outside.

He picked up his luggage and walked out of the noodle shop.

Behind him came Old Liu's voice, muffled and flat.

"Take it slow on the road."

Lin Que paused, not turning back.

"Uncle Liu, your noodles are truly delicious."

After saying that, he stepped into the fog.

The streetlights in the town were still on, their light soaked yellow by the fog.

Lin Que walked to the entrance of the guesthouse with his suitcase and slowed his pace.

Two people were standing under the old locust tree.

Old Zhao was wearing that deep blue old cotton jacket washed until it was pale, the "Security" armband still on his chest, a corner of it dampened by the dew.

His hands hung at his sides, his fingers constantly rubbing the calluses on his palms.

Old Zhou stood beside him, leaning on a cane.

The pant leg of his left leg was dampened by the dew, clinging to his knee, which was thin to the point of deformity; when the cane moved, the pant leg swayed gently with it.

The two of them didn't know how long they had been standing there.

A fine layer of moisture hung on their old jackets, and dark stains had seeped into their shoulders.

Lin Que stopped three steps away.

Old Zhao looked at him, his lips moved twice, but no sound came out.

His hand-rubbing motion became faster, as if he wanted to rub new skin out of the calluses on his palms.

There was too much in those eyes.

There was the guardedness that had slowly been shed over this past month, the obsession that had finally been laid down after telling the story of Old Liang in front of the stone tablet, and also an indescribable anxiety.

Lin Que saw it very clearly.

Old Zhao wasn't reluctant to let him go; Old Zhao was afraid.

Afraid that this young man would take away the story of Muchuan Town, return to the world outside the mountains—a world that was larger, noisier, and more likely to drown out the name of an old factory area—and that these things would be digested as novelty material and then forgotten.

Just like all the people who had come and gone over the past twenty years.

Lin Que put down his suitcase and took a step forward.

He looked at Old Zhao, his voice not loud, but every word was heavy.

"Uncle Zhao."

Old Zhao's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Rest assured."

"Muchuan Town will be seen."

Lin Que paused for a beat.

"The people and events of Muchuan Town will also be seen."

These two sentences were plain, without any grandiloquent tone.

But precisely because they were plain, they carried weight.

Old Zhao's eyes reddened.

He opened his mouth, words rolling around in his throat several times, but in the end, nothing came out.

The shoulders that had been tense for an entire month completely relaxed at that moment.

He turned around, walked quickly to the tricycle parked behind the locust tree, and pulled out an old snake-skin bag from the cargo bed.

The bag was extremely heavy; it took both of Old Zhao's hands to steady it, and as he brought it over, the veins on his arms popped out one by one.

"Take these with you."

He handed the snake-skin bag to Lin Que.

The mouth of the bag was tied very tightly with the kind of thick hemp rope found in the factory warehouse, tied in a dead knot.

Lin Que reached out to take it, and his wrist immediately sank by half an inch.

He lowered his head to look. Through the gaps in the snake-skin bag, he could see the texture of walnut shells, the curled brown edges of dried shiitake mushrooms, and several bundles of unknown things wrapped in old newspapers.

The whole bag weighed at least twenty or thirty jin.

"Uncle Zhao, this is too heavy, I..."

He hadn't finished his sentence.

Old Zhou's cane struck the ground heavily, creating a dull thud.

"Student Lin!"

Old Zhou shouted in a gruff voice, full of vigor.

"Just take it! This is the sentiment of the whole town, just consider it a gift for those classmates of yours!"

His voice was so loud that even the dogs in the alley across the way barked twice.

After saying this, Old Zhou turned his face away, rubbed his cane on the ground again, his neck stiff.

Lin Que looked at the old snake-skin bag in his hands.

The walnuts were harvested on the mountain, the shiitake mushrooms were dried by themselves, and what was wrapped in newspapers was likely wood ear mushrooms or dried bamboo shoots.

If these things were placed on supermarket shelves in the city, they might not be worth much.

But carrying them out from deep within the Qinba Mountains was another matter entirely.

Lin Que didn't decline again.

He moved the snake-skin bag next to his suitcase, gripped the handle with one hand and supported the bottom of the bag with the other, his palm aching from the coarse hemp rope.

"Thank the uncles and aunties for me."

Old Zhao nodded, sniffed hard, and didn't speak again.

The sound of an engine came from the corner of the town street in the distance.

A grey off-road vehicle emerged from the fog and slowly stopped in front of the guesthouse.

Zhou Mingda poked his head out from the driver's seat.

"Student Lin, ready to set off."

Lin Que bent down to stuff both his luggage and the snake-skin bag into the trunk.

Turning back, he took one last look at Old Zhao and Old Zhou.

The two stood under the locust tree, not moving.

The window on the second floor of Unit 3 in the distance was open, and a very light, faint opera tune drifted out.

Auntie Song's voice seemed a little brighter today than yesterday, the tail end of the notes drawn out long, curving in the fog before dissipating.

Lin Que got into the car and closed the door.

The off-road vehicle started and slowly drove out of the town entrance along the narrow road.

He turned his head and looked out through the car window.

The figures of Old Zhao and Old Zhou became smaller and smaller.

The outline of the old locust tree blurred into a dark shadow in the fog.

The dilapidated factory buildings, the rusty chimneys, the windows covered with old newspapers, one after another, retreated past the car window.

This humid town in the Qinba Mountains, along with the smell of rust, the opera tunes, and the morning white steam, receded little by little into the fog behind him.

The car had been driving for about ten minutes when Zhou Mingda glanced at the back seat through the rearview mirror.

"Student Lin, how does it feel after this month?"

Lin Que withdrew his gaze and leaned back into the seat.

"Before I came, I thought I was going to look at other people's lives."

He paused.

"Only after staying for a month did I know that it was they who let me see myself clearly."

Zhou Mingda was silent for a few seconds, looking at the back seat again through the rearview mirror.

The young man was leaning against the back seat, his jacket cuffs still stained with mud, his gaze falling steadily outside the window.

The sharpness that had been so piercing when he arrived had been pressed into his eyes by the rain and fog of this month, sinking down and taking root.

Zhou Mingda withdrew his gaze to the front and didn't ask further.

Some changes don't need explanation.

Writing what he brought out into an article would be more effective than saying a hundred words.

The car passed the Qinling Tunnel group, the mountain terrain gradually leveled off, and the road widened.

Two hours later, the off-road vehicle drove into the departure level of An City Airport.

Tao Zhiyan stood at the entrance of the terminal.

He was wearing a dark grey jacket, his hands in his pants pockets.

On the pillar next to him, the flight information scrolling screen showed that the flight to the capital was boarding in forty minutes.

Lin Que walked over with his luggage.

Tao Zhiyan only needed one look to know that this trip to the mountains had not been in vain.

The young man's cuffs were muddy, his shoes covered in traces of varying wetness, but standing under the lights of the terminal, he was much steadier than when he arrived.

Tao Zhiyan pulled his hands out of his pockets and patted Lin Que on the shoulder.

"Little Lin, write well."

His voice carried the roughness unique to men from Shaanxi, but these three words were pressed very lightly.

"I am waiting to see your work."

Lin Que nodded.

Tao Zhiyan smiled, squeezed Lin Que's shoulder firmly, and then released his hand.

"Go ahead."

Lin Que went to the counter to check his luggage first, handing over the heavy snake-skin bag and his suitcase together, before walking toward the security checkpoint with his carry-on bag.

Tao Zhiyan stood where he was, his gaze following that back as it passed through the turnstile, went through security, and disappeared around the corner of the boarding gate.

He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, but didn't light it.

Zhou Mingda walked over and handed him a cup of hot water.

"Chairman Tao, do you think Lin Que gained a lot from this trip?"

Tao Zhiyan didn't take the water, nor did he turn back.

He stared at the direction of the boarding gate for a long time.

"Little Zhou."

"Yes?"

"Believe it or not, those few in the capital are about to have trouble sleeping soon."