The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Chapter 122 Anchor: A Wisp of Smoke on a Winter Night Street

The coolness of the electrodes felt like tiny icicles, continuously piercing the skull.

The field of vision was pure black, but not empty.

Color, shape, smell, and touch are directly fed into neural pathways as data streams.

The program is booting up.

First came my mother's voice, her Mandarin with a familiar, slightly accented regional accent.

"Zhengzheng, dinner's ready."

The scene depicts the kitchen of an old family home, where the setting sun casts diamond-shaped patches of light through the gauze curtains onto the tiled floor.

Pork rib soup simmered on the stove, the white steam blurring the outline of the range hood.

"Utopia" Log: Started via Guide Path A-7. Target Memory Type: Family Warmth. Emotional Saturation Setting: 85%. Detail Filling Level: High.

The soup had a rich aroma, the kind of spice packet my mother often used, with star anise, cinnamon, and fennel seeds.

Lin Zheng remembered this taste.

But he remembers even more that he remained silent at the dinner table that day because his mock exam results were not ideal.

The mother sighed and said, "It's okay, try harder next time."

The father tapped the rim of the bowl with his chopsticks, making a crisp sound.

In the video provided by the program, the father is smiling, the mother is serving him food, and the atmosphere at the table is as harmonious as a New Year's Eve dinner.

There were no sighs, no banging of bowls, no oppressive silence that weighed on the chest and made it hard to eat.

The program is optimizing memory.

It removes all unpleasant impurities, leaving only a shiny shell.

The next segment is of the university library.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows are the red maple leaves of late autumn, the indoor heating is ample, and the air smells of old paper and caffeine.

He sat by the window, a thick textbook spread out in front of him.

Sunlight shone on the pages of the book, making the words clear.

The blonde girl sitting next to him smiled at him and handed him a mint.

He took it and said thank you.

I do remember this girl; her name was Samantha, and she was in the biochemistry department.

Their only interaction was during a group project when he frequently stumbled over his words due to his lack of fluency. Samantha stepped in to save the day and afterwards patted him on the shoulder, saying, "Don't worry about it."

No candy was offered.

A perfect afternoon without sunshine.

Only the stark white lights of the laboratory and the exhaustion of revising a PowerPoint presentation alone at three in the morning.

The program is being woven.

It takes scattered, neutral, and even slightly frustrating fragments of reality, re-cuts and stitches them together, and turns them into embroidery that conforms to the template of "positive memories".

Screen switch.

The temple fair in my hometown during the Spring Festival.

Crowds thronged the streets, candied hawthorns glistened enticingly under the streetlights, and a dragon dance troupe marched through the heart of the street, beating drums and gongs.

His father put his arm around his shoulder and pointed to the fireworks in the distance.

A corner of the mother's scarf was blown up by the wind.

Everyone's face was beaming with a standard, happy smile, their teeth white and their eyes curved into perfect arcs.

so perfect.

It's as perfect as a cheap travel trailer.

Lin Zheng's memories of temple fairs are filled with the embarrassment of accidentally stepping on someone's heel while jostling for the crowd, the frown caused by the sourness of candied hawthorns, his father's irritation and complaints about the crowds, and the lingering sulfur smell in the air after the fireworks, which stings the eyes.

That's the real thing.

The program provides sterilized specimens.

He began to feel a kind of suffocation.

It's not physiological, but cognitive.

These beautified and refined memories, like syrup, coat us up, trying to cover up the rough, unpolished truth.

They are telling him: You deserve this kind of life.

Warmth, smooth sailing, full of kindness and opportunities.

If only—if only I had tried harder, if only I had been luckier, if only I had made wiser choices.

"Emotional fluctuation detection: Irregular oscillations were observed in the subject's alpha waves. Evaluation of the effectiveness of the guidance path A-7: Surface acceptance rate was 87%, and the deep resistance index rose to 41%. Compensation protocol B-2 was activated, injecting a simulated signal of soothing neurotransmitters."

A warm current spread down my spine.

The muscles relax involuntarily.

The thought of resistance was forcibly suppressed, like the receding tide.

The program is both reassuring and reinforcing guidance.

The image continues to flow.

I got my driver's license for the first time.

This is the first time I've ever made a pot of edible tomato and egg noodles by myself in a foreign country.

The money I earned from "building Gundam" for the first time was used to pay next week's rent.

Every scene has been polished to a shine.

I passed my driver's license test on the first try, without encountering that difficult, obese examiner.

The tomato and egg noodles were perfectly seasoned, and the bottom of the pot wasn't burnt.

The landlady was kind and didn't nitpick about a tiny stain in the corner of the wall during the inspection, thus not withholding the deposit.

False hope.

A carefully designed hope, free from any risk or pain.

Lin Zheng watched numbly as these images played in rotation in the dark room of his consciousness.

He thought of the "parts" waiting to be assembled in the port warehouse.

They were once living, breathing people, with their own memories—good, bad, and chaotic.

Ultimately, however, they were all disassembled, categorized, and reassembled into "works" that met the client's requirements.

He is now that "part".

Memory is his flesh and bones, which are being dismantled, washed and reshaped by an invisible hand.

"Cognitive remodeling progress: 17%. Neuroplasticity index remains high. Abnormal activity was detected in the hippocampal-amygdala connection tract, attempting to establish new associations."

The connecting bundle is burning.

Those fabricated, warm images attempt to forcibly connect with the real, painful feelings he remembers.

failure.

Another failure.

Real pain is like a stubborn reef, refusing to be submerged by the sweet tide.

The over-discharge of the connective tissue during repeated attempts and failures brings about a diffuse, dull ache similar to a migraine.

Lin Zheng's fingertips twitched slightly on the armrest of the lab chair.

On the monitoring screen, the curve representing the level of neural stress suddenly rose.

"Warning: The subject exhibited physiological resistance. Reduce the intensity of emotional input and switch to neutral memory guidance pathway C-4."

The scene changed.

No longer heartwarming scenes, but everyday moments lacking strong emotions.

Riding the subway, watching GG cars speeding by outside the window.

Compare the prices of two types of oatmeal in front of the supermarket shelf.

On rainy days, I huddle under the eaves of a convenience store waiting for the rain to stop.

These images are more "safe," but also more hollow.

They are like background noise, constantly washing over the shores of consciousness.

Lin Zheng felt exhausted.

A deep, bone-chilling exhaustion.

It's not physical wear and tear, but mental and emotional damage.

Just as consciousness was about to be swept away by this gray tide, a scent suddenly burst in without warning.

It was not injected by the program.

It emerged stubbornly from the depths of his own memory, breaking free from some kind of constraint.

That was the complex smell of a winter night on the street.

The first thing to enter the nasal cavity is the slightly pungent smell of car exhaust, mixed with the unique chill of cold air.

Then came the bitter, burnt smell of cheap coffee, wafting from the crack in the door of the 24-hour convenience store on the roadside.

On a deeper level, there's the unique smell of crowded places—the smell of old down jacket fabric, the smell of unkempt hair oil, dust, and a faint, pungent, stale odor from a street corner trash can.

Finally, overwhelmingly covering all other smells was a simple and warm food aroma.

That's not the aroma of carefully prepared food from a restaurant kitchen.

It's the solid, rough warmth that comes out when you open a large-capacity insulated container, a mixture of cheap vegetables (maybe cabbage, carrots, potatoes) and plenty of starch (perhaps noodles or rice porridge).

The smell was like a rusty key, suddenly unlocking the keyhole of memory.

The screen then exploded.

Instead of the clear image provided by the program, it was a blurry, shaky, and noisy clip.

A cold night.

Emerald Dreamland, a back street in the eastern district of the city.

The streetlights cast a dim, yellowish glow, unable to completely dispel the darkness, only drawing circles of light on the sidewalk.

A person is standing in the spotlight.

Many, many people.

They formed a crooked line, stretching from a makeshift stall on the street corner all the way into the darkness in the distance.

Some people in the group were wearing thin coats and shivering slightly in the cold wind.

Someone was pushing a shopping cart filled with all their belongings.

Someone was holding the child's hand; the child's face was red from the cold.

Several huge silver insulated buckets were displayed on the stall.

An old man dressed in a dark robe and wearing a white prayer hat stood behind the bucket, holding a long-handled spoon in his hand.

His beard was gray, and his face was thin, but his movements were steady.

Scoop up a spoonful of hot soup, pour it into a disposable paper bowl, and hand it to the person in line in front of you.

The person who took the bowl said thank you in a low voice, and some would say a few words in a language that Lin Zheng couldn't understand.

The old man nodded and replied in accented English, "May you be safe."

Then continue scooping out the next bowl.

Lin Zheng stood right next to the stall.

He didn't come to collect food.

That day, he had just finished a day's work and was dragging his aching body back to his rented apartment, taking a shortcut through this back street.

Then I saw this queue, this stall.

He intended to lower his head and walk quickly past.

But the old man ladling soup called out to him.

"Young man," the old man's voice was calm, cutting through the winter night's chill, "could you help divide the bread?"

It's in that box.

The old man pointed to an open cardboard box at his feet, which was filled with thick slices of dry-looking baguette bread.

Lin Zheng stopped in his tracks.

He looked at the old man, then at the long queue, his hands still covered in blood despite being disinfected.

There was a few seconds of silence.

He walked over, squatted down, and began taking bread slices out of the cardboard box and handing them to each person who received a soup bowl.

No one speaks.

The only sounds were the soft clinking of spoons against the sides of buckets, the whistling of the cold wind through the streets, and the rustling of people walking and swallowing.

The air was bitterly cold, but a small cloud of white steam rose around the insulated container, carrying the warmth of the food.

Lin Zheng mechanically handed over the bread.

His fingers were a little stiff from the cold.

Occasionally, you'll touch the recipient's fingers, which are usually colder, have rougher skin, or have hard scabs from healed wounds.

As a woman wrapped in a tattered blanket took the bread, she whispered "God bless you" in Spanish.

Lin Zheng didn't understand, but simply nodded.

The line moved forward slowly.

The soup in the thermos seemed endless.

The old man stood there, repeating the actions of scooping soup and handing over bowls.

Finally, after being served another bowl of soup, the old man straightened up slightly and stretched his shoulders.

He glanced at Lin Zheng.

"You are not a Muslim," the old man said, stating a fact, not a question.

Lin Zheng shook his head.

"I'm religious," he heard himself say, his voice dry from the cold. In America, if you want to get by, you have to have some kind of faith, otherwise you'll be ostracized—that's the wisdom of the older generation.

The old man smiled, his wrinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes.

"I know," he said casually. "I can see that, and I appreciate your help here."

Lin Zheng did not respond.

He didn't know what to say.

He stayed here to help, not out of faith, not even out of compassion.

Perhaps it was just because I was too tired, too tired to go back to that cold, empty apartment with only a mattress.

Perhaps it's simply because distributing bread mechanically here requires no thought, no talking, allowing one to temporarily forget the weight of life.

The old man ladled out another bowl of soup and handed it to the next person in line.

Then, while gently stirring the little soup left in the bucket with a spoon, he began to speak in a casual tone.

"Many people ask me why I do this."

"They think that since I am an imam, I should stay in the mosque, recite prayers, lead worship, and explain religious doctrines."

O

"But I'd rather stay here."

He pointed to the cold sidewalk beneath his feet, then to the silent crowd receiving food in front of him.

"Scripture is written on paper. Faith is in the heart. But hunger is in the stomach."

"People on an empty stomach can't listen to any reasoning. All they need is a bowl of hot soup and a piece of bread to warm their bodies and stop their stomach cramps."

"This isn't charity," the old man said earnestly. "This is—mutual aid. People in the community donate money to buy food, and I cook and distribute it. We're simply delivering resources to those who need them most. It's a very simple principle, isn't it?"

Lin Zheng listened without stopping his work.

It's very simple.

But in Emerald Dream City, this principle seems to have been forgotten.

People prefer to talk about stock market fluctuations, the latest technological products, and achievements in the virtual world.

As for those people queuing in the cold wind on the street corner?

They are the background noise of the city, a blurry line in statistics, a "problem that needs to be solved," but rarely seen as specific individuals who "get hungry and feel cold."

The old man continued speaking, his voice low, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps to Lin Zheng.

"When I was young, I read a lot of books. Not just religious classics, but also philosophy, history, and politics."

"Later I discovered that the greatest ideas often arise from observations and responses to the most basic realities."

"When a person is hungry, they need to eat. When they are cold, they need to wear clothes. When they are sick, they need medical treatment. These are the foundations of everything."

"Then comes the spirit. When people are well-fed, warmly clothed, and physically comfortable, they have the energy to think, to believe, to love, and to create."

"If you get the order wrong, problems will arise. Making people believe in God on an empty stomach is coercion. Making people talk about ideals while they're freezing is deception."

"I used to know some people." The old man's gaze looked into the distance, as if piercing through time and the city, and seeing something else.

"They believe that the world can be changed, and that it must be changed by human hands. They don't place their hopes on vague promises, but rather take root in the soil, in factories, and on the streets."

"They believe in the power of unity, that ordinary people can accomplish great things when they organize themselves. They don't believe in a savior; they themselves are the builders."

"That power—" The old man paused, as if searching for the right words.

"It feels very reassuring."

He placed the spoon on the edge of the bucket and rubbed his hands, which were red from the cold.

"Like this pot of soup. It can't save the world, it can't solve all the problems. But it can give dozens of people something warm in their stomachs on this cold night."

"That's enough. Do it little by little, change it little by little."

"This is the most important thing I learned from them: focus on reality, solve specific problems, and rely on human strength."

The line gradually shortened.

The last person to receive the soup was a tall, thin man. He took the bowl of soup and bread, bowed deeply to the old man, and then quickly walked into the darkness with the bowl in his hand.

The insulated container is finally empty.

The old man began packing his things.

Lin Zheng helped him load the empty buckets and boxes onto the back of an old pickup truck.

After tidying up, the old man took a thermos from the car, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of hot water.

He glanced at Lin Zheng.

"Thank you, young man. What's your name?"

"Lin Zheng".

"Lin Zheng." The old man repeated, then nodded. "I am Imam Abdul, just call me Imam."

"Remember tonight. Remember these faces, remember the taste of this soup."

"When you feel that everything is illusory and meaningless, think about these real things. Hunger is real, cold is real, and the outstretched hand between people is real."

"Grasp what is real. That is your only anchor in the storm."

The old man patted Lin Zheng on the shoulder.

Then he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The old pickup truck lit up its taillights, slowly drove away from the street corner, and disappeared into the fog of the winter night.

Lin Zheng stood still.

The rough texture of the bread still lingered in my hands.

The complex and authentic smells of exhaust fumes, coffee, dust, and cheap vegetable soup still lingered in my nostrils.

The cold seeped through his coat.

But somewhere on my chest, there was a small patch that felt warm.

That was the first time he had felt such pure warmth since arriving in this country, without any ulterior motives.

It doesn't come from the joy of success, the pleasure of consumption, or the satisfaction of being recognized.

It was simply that, on a cold night, I did something concrete and small with a group of people.

This will temporarily relieve the emptiness in the stomachs of dozens of people.

Fragments of memory are frozen here.

Like an underexposed but well-defined photograph.

The streetlights cast a dim yellow light.

Steam rising in white vapor.

A silent team.

That complex and authentic smell—exhaust fumes, coffee, dust, cheap vegetable soup—still lingers, stubbornly persisting in every corner of the senses.

Lin Zheng felt his consciousness being gently enveloped and propelled by an invisible force, sinking back into the core of his memory of that winter night on the street.

"Grasp what is real."

The old man's voice echoed softly once more on the echo chamber of memory.

This time, Lin Zheng did not resist.

He closed his eyes—even though it was already dark—to let that imperfect but incredibly solid memory envelop him.

It was like grabbing a rough but sturdy rope hanging down from a cliff.

On the monitoring screen, the complex patterns representing his brainwaves began to reweave in an unprecedented, slow, and steady manner.