35: Chapter 35 The Fifty-Eight-Year-Old Boy

Jiang Lin opened his eyes.

The warm yellow light of the desk lamp fell on the desktop.

In the center of the desk lay an A4 piece of paper that had been folded repeatedly.

At the top of the page was a line of text: "Undergraduate Training Plan for the Physics Major".

Below it was the course sequence he had copied out by hand the night before his departure.

These words lay quietly under the desk lamp, with clear ink, white paper, and smooth edges, neither frayed by acid rain and moisture nor worn to a grayish-brown by sandstorms.

Beside the paper was pressed a copy of "Advanced Mathematics", Volume 1.

A bookmark was clipped to the first chapter.

"Functions and Limits."

Looking at these things, Jiang Lin felt somewhat dazed.

Before his departure, the courses on the training plan were merely names, lined up there like towering mountains.

At that time, he only knew that university Physics was very difficult, that the training plan of the Peking University School of Physics was not something ordinary high school students could casually bite through, and that his own aptitude was dull, so he might learn very slowly.

But knowing was one thing.

Actually being crushed by them for forty years was quite another.

For a split second, a sense of lament welled up in Jiang Lin's heart.

If he had never entered the Wasteland, what would an eighteen-year-old Jiang Lin have done waking up this morning?

Rub his eyes first, glance at the alarm clock, wonder if he still had to visit relatives today, or simply take advantage of the rare Spring Festival to stay in bed a little longer and sleep in?

Things that had never happened were naturally impossible to know.

On the other hand, the Jiang Lin of the fortieth year of the Wasteland would, immediately upon waking, touch his chest to see if that dull, oppressive pain had worsened, and then slowly move his limbs, waiting for the stiffness in his joints to dissipate.

But now he was back again.

Jiang Lin's gaze fell on the alarm clock at the corner of the desk.

The second day of the Lunar New Year.

Six o'clock and one minute in the morning.

In reality, only another minute had passed.

Yet in that single minute, he had lived through forty years.

In the upper right corner of his vision, that familiar string of translucent numbers had lit up once more.

[29:23:58:43]

[29:23:58:42]

[29:23:58:41]

It was still a thirty-day countdown cycle.

"What should I bring in with me this cycle?"

Huh, there seemed to be no need to rush.

There were still more than twenty days left.

Thinking this, Jiang Lin habitually exercised his body.

Light, flexible, with endless strength.

He had neither sleepiness nor any desire to study.

He only wanted to walk around everywhere.

So he opened the door and went out.

The lights were on in the living room, and it was quiet.

On the second day of the Lunar New Year, his father rarely had a shift scheduled, and his mother could also sleep in.

During the first three returns, reality always caught him up very quickly.

His mother's voice, the sound of water in the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast, and the worldly hustle and bustle of the city could always drag him back from the shadow of the Wasteland into the human world.

But this time, no one knew he had returned.

No one knew that at six-one this morning, a fifty-eight-year-old soul was adapting to a new life.

On the coffee table lay unfinished melon seed shells, candy wrappers, and a few sugar mandarins from last night.

His father's jacket was draped over the sofa armrest, and the TV remote control lay crookedly by the edge of the cushion.

The door to his parents' room was closed, and the house was still asleep.

The Real World had not yet begun today.

In the Wasteland World, every single morning required him to start it with his own hands.

Lighting the fire, checking the water, inspecting the farmland, organizing tools, and confirming today's study goals.

If he didn't move, that world would only continue to grow colder, more chaotic, and more ruined.

But in reality, even if he did nothing, the city would wake up on its own.

The entire massive social system would operate according to its own inertia in places he could not see.

Jiang Lin walked over to the coffee table and picked up a sugar mandarin.

The mandarin peel was soft, carrying a hint of coolness.

Peeling off the outer skin, a fresh and sweet scent suddenly wafted out.

His brain almost immediately began calculating.

Moisture, sugar, vitamins.

The soil, sunlight, irrigation, transportation, preservation, and market circulation required by a citrus tree.

Such a small fruit, if it appeared in the Wasteland, would signify how luxurious ecological stability was.

After peeling the mandarin, he put a segment of the pulp into his mouth.

The sweetness reached the depths of his heart.

Around twenty past seven, some movement finally came from his parents' room.

The sound of slippers stepping on the floor.

The door handle turned.

His mother, Zhang Xiufen, walked out draped in that dark red old cotton-padded jacket, her hair uncombed, a few strands across her forehead pressed somewhat messily.

The moment she caught sight of Jiang Lin sitting in the living room, she froze for a second.

"Why did you get up so early?"

Her voice still had the hoarseness of just waking up, carrying a hint of surprise and a very natural heartache.

"I was even thinking not to call you and let you sleep a bit longer. It's the New Year, and you don't even know how to rest."

Jiang Lin raised his head and looked at his mother.

There were a few strands of white hair at his mother's left temple.

Just like forty years ago, it was still those same few strands.

No more, no less.

This was very good.

Seeing him sitting there without speaking, Zhang Xiufen frowned.

"What's wrong? Did you not sleep well last night?"

Jiang Lin's throat moved.

For a split second, he desperately wanted to cry out, "Mom."

Not the casual "Mom" of ordinary times.

But that cry, after forty years apart, to confirm that she was still here.

But if that cry were to leave his lips, it would be far too heavy.

So he merely lowered his head, placed the mandarin peel in his hand on the edge of the coffee table, and kept his voice as natural as possible.

"I've woken up."

Zhang Xiufen looked at him twice, didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and simply assumed he was still that high school senior whose stress from the first mock exams hadn't completely dissipated.

"You must be hungry. What do you want to eat for breakfast?"

"Anything that can fill me up is fine."

"Is there anything at home that won't fill you up?"

"Mm."

Jiang Lin nodded.

While his mother was busy in the kitchen, his father also woke up.

He came out of the bedroom to pour water, and as he passed the sofa, he habitually supported his lower back.

If it were the Jiang Lin of before, he wouldn't have noticed at all.

But now he saw it.

He saw the angle at which his father's right hand fell behind his waist, and saw his knees bend slightly.

Jiang Lin almost spoke up to tell him not to always stubbornly push through after night shifts.

The words at the tip of his tongue transformed into a simple word: "Dad."

Because in his father's eyes, he was merely a high school senior who had just placed first in the city and could sleep in during the Spring Festival.

He had no qualification to urge his own father in the tone of a fifty-eight-year-old man.

Jiang Jianguo gave a simple, honest smile.

"Up so early. Are we going to grandma's house today?"

"Okay."

Breakfast was not the usual congee and pickles.

On the second day of the Lunar New Year, there were still New Year dishes left over at home.

Zhang Xiufen reheated last night's pot of spare rib and lotus root soup. A few specks of oil floated on the soup's surface, and the powdery lotus root had been stewed until soft and mushy, crumbling with a gentle pinch of chopsticks.

She dropped a handful of dried noodles into the pot and fried two pieces of ciba in a separate small pan.

On the dining table were also placed a few slices of reheated fish cake, two meat balls, and the unfinished stuffed lotus root slices from last night.

Before Jiang Lin left, these things were merely New Year's breakfast.

But now, looking at that bowl of lotus root soup noodles, the first thing he smelled wasn't the aroma.

It was water, salt, fat, starch, protein, and the warmth that a stable society could easily serve up on a table.

"Eat more. You use your brain a lot now."

Zhang Xiufen pushed the bowl in front of him.

Jiang Lin lowered his head.

The heat rushed against his face.

The aroma of the spare rib and lotus root soup was very solid, carrying the heaviness of Jiangcheng families celebrating the New Year, the sweetness of the lotus root stewed until powdery and soft, the warmth of the spare rib fat floating on the soup's surface, and the worldly breath that only came when the kitchen rekindled its fire.

He took a sip of the soup.

It warmed him to the core of his heart.

The lotus root was soft and glutinous, the dried noodles had absorbed the soup, and the edges of the fish cake still retained a bit of elasticity after being restreamed.

These flavors were as ordinary as ordinary could be.

So ordinary that no one in this family would stop using their chopsticks for a bowl of hot soup, a handful of dried noodles, or two pieces of ciba.

Yet during the drought of the eleventh year of the Wasteland, Jiang Lin had carried water bucket by bucket from rock crevices hundreds of meters away just for the water in such a bowl of soup.

Seeing him eating slowly, Zhang Xiufen thought he had no appetite.

"It's delicious, so I'm eating slowly."

Jiang Lin silently finished the lotus root soup noodles, not leaving even a bit of crushed lotus root or scallions at the bottom of the bowl.

Looking at the empty bowl, Zhang Xiufen was somewhat pleased.

She asked him if he wanted to eat a bit more.

"It's precisely the time for growing your body, eating more is great."

His father, who was eating lotus root, chimed in vaguely.

He wouldn't grow anymore.

Jiang Lin shook his head to indicate it was enough and instinctively picked up the bowl to wash it, which Zhang Xiufen instinctively tried to stop.

"Leave it there. Wait until your dad finishes eating and wash them together."

Jiang Lin's hand paused in mid-air.

In the Wasteland, he had lived alone for forty years.

But in this home, his mother would only treat him like a child.

Jiang Lin did not persist and put the bowl down.

"Then I'll go back to my room to read for a bit."

Zhang Xiufen glared at him.

"I just told you to rest, and now you're reading again."

Jiang Lin smiled somewhat stiffly.

"Then I'll go out for a walk."

"It's freezing cold; staying home and sleeping a bit longer would be better," his mother muttered.

"I can't sleep, just want to stroll around casually."

"Don't hunch your back like an old man."

Before he went out, his mother gently patted him on the lower back and spine.

Jiang Lin froze for a moment.

Then he slowly straightened his lumbar spine, which had been hunched over for more than ten years in the Wasteland.

Zhang Xiufen didn't think much of it.

She simply regarded him as a high school senior with poor posture from doing test prep for too long, and casually snatched a scarf off the coat rack.

"This ghost weather in Jiangcheng, the wind just drills right into the collar. If you don't wear a scarf, you'll be complaining of a headache again when you get back."

While chattering away, she had already stood on tiptoe to help him tie the scarf securely.