71: Chapter 71 The First Mushroom

On the morning of the third day, the sun in Greenfield shone brighter than the previous two days.

Sam was still sitting on the steps in front of Paul's house, holding his guitar.

The old woman—her name was Martha—was still sitting next to him, holding that guitar.

After three days of learning, she could finally play a short, complete melody.

"Listen to this," she said, pressing her fingers onto the strings and plucking them one by one.

The melody was very simple, with only a few notes, but she played it steadily.

Sam listened, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward.

"It sounds good," he said.

Martha smiled.

That smile was different from when she first arrived three days ago.

Back then, her smile had been polite and tentative.

Now, this smile rippled out from her eyes.

Sam took the guitar from her, repeated the melody she had played, and then added a few chords.

The melody changed instantly, becoming richer and even more pleasant to hear.

Martha listened, her eyes lighting up.

"Is... is this still what I played just now?"

Sam nodded. "It was you who played it. I just added a little something."

Martha stared at her hands for a long time.

Those hands, covered in age spots and wrinkles, had just played a melody—a melody that had been heard by someone else.

She pressed her hands against her chest, saying nothing.

But her eyes grew red.

Chris found an abandoned warehouse on the east side of town.

The warehouse was large, with half the roof collapsed and holes all over the walls, but inside there were several rows of neatly arranged wooden shelves.

He stood in front of the shelves, looking at them for a long time.

Paul followed him, not knowing what he was looking at.

"What was this used for before?" Chris asked.

Paul thought for a moment. "For raising chickens. That was decades ago."

Chris nodded and patted the shelves.

They were sturdy and didn't wobble at all.

"They can be used," he said.

Paul was stunned. "Used... used for what?"

Chris pointed to the bare mountains outside. "Growing mushrooms."

Chris got straight to work.

He took those few old people who had been sunning themselves under the trees and began to clean up the warehouse.

At first, the old people just stood by and watched, not knowing what to do.

Chris didn't rush them; he just worked on his own.

He moved wood, cleared away trash, and patched holes in the walls, working alone until he was drenched in sweat.

The first to join in was the man who had been sitting on the threshold.

His name was Henry, in his forties, with messy hair and tattered clothes.

He stood at the warehouse entrance, watching Chris work for a long time.

Then he walked in and picked up a piece of wood.

Chris looked up at him.

Henry said nothing, carried the wood to the corner, and came back for a second piece.

Chris smiled and continued working.

The second to join was Martha.

After finishing her guitar lesson with Sam, she walked over and saw people busy inside the warehouse.

She stood at the door and watched for a while, then walked in and picked up a broom.

The third, the fourth, the fifth.

By the time the sun set, there were over a dozen people in the warehouse.

Some were sweeping the floor, some were moving things, and some were patching walls.

Those old people who had been sitting under the trees in a daze three days ago were now covered in dust, their faces streaked with sweat, but no one stopped.

Paul stood at the door, watching these people, his eyes growing a little red.

He remembered that three days ago, these people were still waiting to die under the trees.

Jenny and Linda went door-to-door in town.

They carried that wooden box, which contained one hundred letters.

Every time they knocked on a door, Jenny would take out a letter and hand it to the person who opened it.

"This was written by someone else," she said. "Take a look."

Some received the letter, read it, and cried.

Some received the letter, read it, and smiled.

Some received the letter, read it, then pressed it against their hearts, remaining silent for a very, very long time.

When they reached the last house, it was already dark.

The door of that house was very dilapidated, and the windows were broken and boarded up with wood.

Jenny knocked on the door, but no one answered.

She knocked again.

The door opened.

A man stood at the door, so thin he was skin and bones, his eyes deeply sunken, his hair gray.

He looked at her without speaking.

Jenny was stunned for a moment, then took a letter from the box and handed it to him.

"This was written by someone else," she said. "Take a look."

The man took the letter and looked down at it.

The letter told the story of an old couple.

The old man had passed away, and the old woman grew mushrooms by herself, and eventually, she smiled.

The man finished reading and looked up.

His eyes were red, but he didn't cry.

He returned the letter to Jenny and said, "I don't have a wife."

Jenny didn't know what to say.

The man continued, "I am alone. It's been twenty years."

He pointed to the dilapidated house behind him.

"This house is about to collapse. I am about to collapse too."

Jenny listened, her nose feeling a bit sore.

She took another letter from the box and handed it to him.

"This one was also written by someone who is alone," she said. "Take a look."

The man took the letter and looked down again.

This letter told the story of an old miner.

His wife had died, his son had left, and he lived alone in a broken house.

Later, someone came to teach him how to grow mushrooms, and he had work to do every day and someone to talk to every day.

The man finished reading and looked up.

His eyes were a little brighter than before.

He asked Jenny, "Where is... the person who grows mushrooms?"

Yuki sat in front of Paul's house, holding her computer.

On the screen, the mysterious administrator account sent a message: [It's been three days. How is it?]

Yuki looked up and surveyed her surroundings.

Sam was still playing the guitar on the steps, surrounded by several people—Martha and a few other old ladies, all holding guitars.

They played slowly and often made mistakes, but everyone was smiling.

Chris was busy over at the warehouse, followed by a dozen people.

Some were moving wood, some were sweeping, and some were driving nails.

The lights in the warehouse were on, and a warm yellow glow shone out from the door.

Jenny and Linda were still going door-to-door.

Their figures moved through the night, one door after another.

She lowered her head and typed a line on the screen: [It has started to move.]

The other party replied quickly: [Moved?]

Yuki thought for a moment, then typed another line: [Someone is learning guitar. Someone is repairing the warehouse. Someone is reading letters.]

The other party was silent for a moment, then sent a line: [What kind of movement is that?]

Yuki stared at the line for three seconds.

Then she replied: [To move means to go from sitting to standing.]

The other party didn't reply again.

But Yuki knew he was thinking about that sentence.

On the morning of the fourth day, the warehouse cleanup was finished.

Chris stood at the entrance, looking at the rows of neatly arranged wooden shelves, and nodded with satisfaction.

Henry stood beside him, covered in dust and sweat, but he was smiling.

Chris took a bag of something out of his toolbox and opened it; inside was a dark, clumped substance.

Henry leaned over to look. "What is this?"

Chris said, "Mushroom spawn."

Henry didn't understand.

Chris walked into the warehouse, squatted in front of the shelves, broke that dark clump into small pieces, and placed them into the shelves one by one.

Henry followed him, watched those black pieces, and asked, "Can this grow mushrooms?"

Chris nodded.

Henry asked again, "How long?"

Chris thought for a moment. "One month."

Henry was stunned.

Chris stood up, clapped his hands, and looked at him. "In a month, you'll have mushrooms to eat."

Sam finished teaching the last lesson on the steps.

Those old ladies held their guitars and left one by one.

Martha was the last to leave; she walked two steps, then turned back.

"Will you come tomorrow?" she asked.

Sam nodded.

Martha smiled, turned, and left.

Sam sat there, watching her back.

Her legs weren't very good, and she walked very slowly, but every step was steady.

He remembered when he first went to Xinfeng Town.

Back then, no one listened to him sing; there were only three old men dozing off.

Now, he was teaching others to play the guitar.

He lowered his head, looked at the guitar in his hands, and gently plucked a string.

The sound of the strings drifted into the night, carrying very far.

Jenny and Linda sat in Paul's kitchen with a stack of letters in front of them.

These letters were all written by people in town; some were long, some short, some in neat handwriting, others crooked.

Linda picked up a letter and read it softly: "My name is George, seventy-three years old. My wife died ten years ago. I have been living alone. Today, someone showed me a letter, which told someone else's story. As I read it, I suddenly thought, I can write too."

Jenny listened without speaking.

Linda continued reading: "I am writing this letter to tell the person who wrote the letter, what you wrote, I have seen."

She finished reading and looked up at Jenny.

Jenny's eyes grew red.

She took a letter from Xinfeng Town out of the box and handed it to Linda. "You write a reply. I'll help you mail it."

Linda was stunned for a moment, then took the letter paper and picked up a pen.

She wrote for a long time.

After she finished, she handed the letter to Jenny.

Jenny looked down. On the letter, there was only one line: [What you wrote, I have also seen.]

On the morning of the seventh day, Chris's mushrooms grew out.

The first one.

It was very small, white, and squeezed into the dark mushroom spawn.

Henry was the first to see it.

He squatted in front of the shelves, staring at that mushroom for a long time.

Then he stood up, ran out of the warehouse, and shouted as he ran: "It grew! It grew!"

The people in town heard the shouting and came out one by one.

Sam stood up from the steps, holding his guitar.

Martha walked out of her house, leaning on a cane.

Linda ran out of the kitchen, her hands still covered in flour.

They ran to the warehouse entrance and crowded in to look.

Chris stood in front of the shelves, holding that mushroom in his hands.

The mushroom was very small, only as big as a thumb, but it was shining white.

He turned around, faced the people, and held the mushroom up.

"The first one," he said.

No one spoke.

But someone started to applaud.

It was Martha.

Standing in the crowd, she was the first to clap.

Then it was Henry.

He clapped the loudest, his hands turning red from the clapping.

Then it was Sam.

Holding his guitar, he clapped with his elbows, one beat after another.

Then it was Linda.

She clapped while smiling, her eyes red.

Then it was those people whose names couldn't be named—those old people who had been sitting under the trees in a daze three days ago, those old ladies who didn't believe writing letters was useful five days ago, those people who felt seven days ago that their lives were just over.

They applauded, cheered; some cried, some laughed, some did both.

Yuki stood at the back of the crowd, holding her computer.

On the screen, the mysterious administrator account sent a message: [I heard it.]

She replied with one word: [Yeah.]

That night, Greenfield held a small party.

Right at the warehouse entrance.

Chris brought out several baskets of freshly picked mushrooms and grilled them for everyone to eat.

Sam held his guitar and played that new song.

Martha sat next to him, humming along.

Henry got drunk and hugged Chris, crying and laughing.

He said he hadn't been this happy in twenty years.

Linda took out the letters that had just been written and read them to everyone one by one.

As she read, some people cried, and some laughed.

Yuki sat in the corner, holding her computer.

On the screen, the mysterious administrator account sent another message: [What was that mushroom like?]

Yuki thought for a moment and typed a line: [Very small. White. Just like other mushrooms.]

The other party asked: [Then why are they so happy?]

Yuki looked at those people—Chris grilling mushrooms, Sam playing guitar, Martha singing, Henry drinking, Linda reading letters, and those people laughing and crying.

She typed a line: [Because they grew it themselves.]

The other party was silent for a long time.

Then sent a line: [I think I understand.]

Yuki stared at the line for a long time.

She didn't reply.

But she smiled.

[Chapter 71 End]