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

Chapter 124 Story: John's Apple and Mike's Prosthetic Limb

The cold wind at the street corner didn't stop, making Lin Zheng's cheeks numb.

He stared at Imam Abdul, the bowl of soup in his hand still emitting faint steam, the warmth and coldness creating a stark contrast between his palm and cheek, the tangible sensation preventing him from fully detaching himself from his thoughts.

The barely perceptible flicker of the streetlights and the overlapping of shadows seemed to freeze in his mind for a moment, as if the scene itself had briefly paused. Almost instinctively, he stared intently at the imam, trying to find a clue about this unusual phenomenon on the old man's face, but found that the imam's expression remained calm.

The imam's gaze was clear and calm. He ignored Lin Zheng's questioning and did not urge him to drink the soup.

He simply stood there, waiting, appearing calm and composed, witnessing the winter chill and the struggles of the human heart. Lin Zheng's inner anxiety seemed to lose its usual arrogance in his presence.

Lin Zheng recalled the questions he had just asked, questions that directly attempted to shatter the concept of "meaning," suggesting that everything was nothing more than repetitive parts and empty symbols. However, the temperature of the soup was so real, causing a slight tingling sensation on his skin, preventing his thoughts from completely drifting into the abyss of nothingness. He felt a strange contradiction, a silent struggle between his inner theories and his physical sensations.

The imam spoke slowly, his voice deep and penetrating, not as a reprimand, but more like a whisper of recollection.

"Young man, do you remember the first time we met, at that community clinic?" he asked, his tone tinged with reminiscence, as if guiding Lin Zheng's thoughts back to a specific moment.

A blurry yet vivid image flashed through Lin Zheng's mind. It was a cold evening. He and several volunteers had set up a makeshift tent, the air thick with the mingled smells of disinfectant and herbs, surrounded by people in need. He was just an international student at the time, participating in a volunteer activity by chance, donating some money, and then staying to help move medical equipment. It wasn't the clean and orderly environment of the medical school laboratory he was familiar with, but the street, the real and rough dirt and dust, mixed with people's body heat and hopes.

"A construction worker named Old John broke his leg and couldn't afford to go to the hospital," the imam continued, speaking slowly, as if to ensure that Lin Zheng could absorb every word and construct a clear outline of the story.

Lin Zheng instinctively gripped the bowl in his hand, his fingertips feeling the realistic unevenness of the bowl's surface. He remembered John.

John's face was contorted in pain, sweat soaking his graying brow. His rough hands were covered in thick calluses and old scars from years of labor. Lin Zheng remembered John's pale face in agony, and the helpless yet trusting touch of John gripping his arm as they lifted him into the car. That weight, that pain, was undeniably real.

"When we lifted him into the car and took him to the clinic, he was sweating profusely from the pain, but he kept holding your hand and saying, 'Thank you, young man. You saved me.'" The imam's gaze fell on Lin Zheng's face, as if he could see through the fog of his memories and directly point out the details that he had tried to forget or deconstruct.

"Later, he saved his leg. Although he could no longer do the heavy physical work of carrying heavy objects, with the help of our community, he learned new skills. Last year, I ran into him at the supermarket. He was organizing goods in the stocking area. When he saw me, he smiled from afar and twirled over to give me two apples. He emphasized that they were specially saved for him, the biggest and reddest ones."

The imam's lips curved slightly upward, forming a gentle smile that held a deep appreciation for the past and for human kindness. "Child," he said, "those two apples represent meaning. They are not an exchange, nor a calculation; they are the continuation of goodwill and reciprocation."

Lin Zheng's heart felt as if it had been gently touched. He remembered the hands, slightly reddened by the apple, John's simple and honest smile, and his somewhat unsteady yet powerful steps. Those details were so vivid, challenging his belief that "everything is an illusion." That sincere gratitude and pure giving transcended all his cold theories about "parts" and "systems."

Yes—those are things that programs cannot easily simulate. A worker who broke his leg, through a chance act of kindness, stood up again, found work again, remembered that kindness, and repaid it in the simplest way. There are no grand narratives, no epic heroes in this story, just the smallest ripples in human life, yet they carry an undeniable weight.

Lin Zheng's tightly furrowed brows relaxed slightly, and his lips moved unconsciously. Something seemed to be stuck in his throat as he repeated the imam's words, as if trying to imprint this short sentence deeply into his heart. "—The apple, is meaning." The steam from the soup bowl made his eyes feel hot, the warmth seemingly spreading from his palms to the depths of his eyes.

However, what followed was a deeper confusion. Even so, wasn't John's pain also part of this vast system? His pain, his struggle, ultimately only yielded the "meaning" of two apples, but was that really enough to counteract the heaviness of the entire world? What if even these warm hopes were merely "tranquilizers" to sustain some larger-scale suffering? Lin Zheng's thinking habitually tried to deconstruct this warmth within his inherent nihilistic framework, resisting being persuaded by this simple emotion.

The imam seemed to see through Lin Zheng's hesitation. He didn't refute him, but simply told another story. His voice rang out again, like a gentle breeze brushing past the barriers in Lin Zheng's heart.

"And there's Mrs. Wilson by the river, always picking up plastic bottles." The imam's voice softened, as if gently caressing forgotten memories and sketching out another vivid image.

Lin Zheng immediately pictured Mrs. Wilson in his mind. She was a small, slightly hunched old woman who always wore a faded old coat with several carefully mended patches, and her hair was casually wrapped in an old headscarf. She had spent years scavenging, and her hunched figure blended into the desolation of the city, almost becoming a fixed feature of the area.

"Every time we gave her an extra bag of biscuits, she would carefully save them," the imam said, gently rubbing his hands together as if savoring the feel of those biscuits. Lin Zheng remembered Mrs. Wilson's hands: large knuckles, rough skin, marked by the passage of time, stained with dirt and scratches. The way she saved the biscuits was always so careful, as if they weren't cheap industrial biscuits, but the most precious treasure in the world, a hope she would never allow to be wasted.

"When her grandson comes to visit on the weekend, she'll secretly slip it to him. She always tells her grandson, 'Grandma saved this especially for you.'" The imam's voice carried a hint of barely perceptible laughter, an affirmation of pure human emotions.

Lin Zheng remembered the shy little boy who always kept his head down, his nape covered in soft down, his eyes filled with dependence on his grandmother and curiosity about the world. He would take the cookies from his grandmother's hand and carefully put them in his schoolbag, occasionally stealing a glance at Lin Zheng, his eyes filled with wariness of a stranger. He remembered the boy's satisfied expression as he ate the cookies, and the deep longing for the future in his eyes.

"Her grandson later got into community college, the first college student in generations of their family, and the first to come and tell us the good news." The imam's gaze drifted into the distance, as if looking at those distant yet real beings, those destinies changed by small acts of kindness. "Mrs. Wilson smiled until tears streamed down her face, her wrinkles deepening, and she said to us, trembling, 'Thank you for the cookies, my grandson has hope!'"

The imam's voice echoed in the wind, not preaching, but simply narrating, yet it stirred waves in Lin Zheng's heart. He realized that these were not just cookies, but hope, a warm bond connecting two generations, and a force that could break free from the shackles of fate. This force, though faint, was truly visible.

"Look, we gave her biscuits, but she passed on hope. That hope is real, isn't it?" the imam calmly countered, throwing the question back to Lin Zheng without demanding an answer.

Lin Zheng's throat tightened. He subconsciously raised his hand, gently stroking the rim of the soup bowl with his thumb, feeling its rough texture. Cookies and hope. These two words intertwined in his mind. That sweetness, that strength, passed from Mrs. Wilson's hands to her grandson's, took root in the young man's heart. It wasn't money, it wasn't power, just a small act of humble kindness, yet it brought a child the possibility of escaping the mire of poverty. Was this also a kind of "meaning"? A concrete meaning, not dependent on grand narratives, not pursuing eternal change, but rooted in the present?

The wind was still howling, but to Lin Zheng's ears, there seemed to be some subtle noises from deep within the city, irregular and discordant, yet strangely real, even carrying a faint sense of distortion.

He looked at the imam, trying to find a crack in the old man's calm face, but the imam remained composed, as if he had already seen through all the illusions and realities of the world, and his very existence was a silent answer.

There was no reluctance in the imam's eyes, only a detached understanding of human nature. He slowly took the almost cold soup bowl from Lin Zheng's hand and gently placed it on the table beside him, his movements carrying a ritualistic respect. He did not directly address Lin Zheng's inner struggle, but rather conveyed a calm strength through his actions.

"You're right, young man." The imam's voice suddenly softened, as if afraid of disturbing the whispers in the wind. "In a place like this, people's suffering is like the tide, wave after wave, never ceasing."

Poverty, disease, and loneliness are constantly eroding people's will.

He looked up at the end of the street, where a cluster of buildings was blurred in the mist. The silhouettes of those skyscrapers appeared unusually cold and alien in the dim morning light. Lin Zheng followed his gaze and saw a cityscape that was once so familiar to him, but now felt strangely alien. The towering buildings seemed to be silently mocking the struggles on the ground.

"Sometimes, I ask myself, what can these small acts of help really change? Is it just delaying an inevitable outcome, or merely self-comfort?" The imam's voice carried a hint of human confusion, but this confusion was quickly replaced by determination.

The imam paused, and Lin Zheng held his breath. He had a premonition that this story would touch upon the deepest questions in his heart.

"But when I saw Mike, who lost three fingers in a workplace accident and had to get prosthetics."

"He was once the city's best welder, his hands nimble and strong, forging the steel frame of the city's skyscrapers. But because of an industrial accident, he lost the tool he relied on for a living. What a heavy blow that was." The imam's statement of the facts was heavy and clear, as if one could feel Mike's past pain and despair.

The image immediately flashed into Lin Zheng's mind: Mike. A middle-aged man with fine scars on his face from welding sparks, but these did not obscure the brightness and indomitable spirit in his eyes. His right hand was fitted with a rough, black mechanical prosthetic, reflecting the dim light of the streetlamp in the cold air. The joints of the prosthetic made a slight grinding sound, the friction between metal and air, the friction of his pulsating life. The first time Lin Zheng saw Mike, he was struggling to carry a box of charity supplies with his prosthetic, clumsy but determined, and that resilience left a deep impression on Lin Zheng. The sound was heavy, as if something had been peeled from him and then reassembled, carrying a heavy, indescribable mark of survival.

"After Mike got his prosthetic leg, he didn't become depressed. He still often came to help load and unload supplies," the imam said, his tone calm, as if he were recounting something ordinary. But Lin Zheng knew this was anything but ordinary. "Even with his prosthetic leg, he insisted on carrying those heavy boxes, even though fine beads of sweat would appear on his forehead after each task."

"He always said," the imam mimicked Mike's slightly hoarse voice, with a hint of self-deprecation and pride, but more so with an inner strength, "that my hand can't do heavy work, but it can still move. I used it to earn money before, and now I can use it to help people; that's its purpose."

The imam's gaze fell on Lin Zheng's face again, deep and warm, as if he wanted to directly transmit this power to him.

"Helping others while you're still able to move makes you feel like there's still hope in life, and that these fingers haven't been wasted." The imam's voice became clearer, each word echoing in the cracks of Lin Zheng's heart that had been eroded by nihilism, stirring a response deep within him. That affirmation of the resilience of life directly shattered the barriers of his nihilism.

"Child, have something to strive for." He emphasized, his voice carrying a clear power that resonated deeply within Lin Zheng's heart. It was no longer merely a metaphor, but a direct address to the core of his being. "To live, one must have something to strive for. This striving is not bestowed by anyone, not given by the system, and certainly not a mere illusion."

"It is something I painstakingly carved out of the mire of despair, bit by bit, from the things I did. It is that glimmer of light that I must ignite for myself and others, even in the darkest of times."

These words gently tapped at Lin Zheng's frozen thoughts, attempting to break through the layer of self-imposed isolation within him. The image of Mike, wearing a prosthetic leg, enduring pain, yet still striving to "find a future," was now vividly imprinted in his mind. His image was no longer merely that of a recipient of aid, but rather that of an active individual brimming with inner strength.

It wasn't a textbook theory, nor a heroic tale from television. It was a sense of strength rooted in suffering yet refusing to succumb to it, a tenacious resilience even in the face of despair. It stood in stark contrast to the immense powerlessness Lin Zheng felt stemming from the "system." He had always believed that in this meticulously crafted world, everything was predetermined, and individuals were merely cogs in a machine, unable to escape their set course. But Mike's story revealed a powerful will that transcended all pre-set expectations.

He recalled his work "assembling Gundams," where he would piece together fragmented corpses into a "complete" whole each time.

When you see a broken body, you feel a sense of emptiness and absurdity. Those bodies have long lost their purpose, repeatedly disassembled and reassembled as spare parts, ultimately becoming "commodities" for the upper class to consume. Their lives are deprived of any possibility of active choice. But Mike, with his prosthetic limbs and his actions, has given his body a new purpose, a new life, and that purpose again. He refuses to be defined as a broken part, but instead uses his remaining strength to create new value and meaning.

Does this mean that even in a world built on lies and exploitation, individuals can still have the freedom to "find a purpose"? Does this mean that even if everything in the "Emerald Dream City" he sees is fake, a real and immortal brilliance of humanity can still emerge from the illusion? In Lin Zheng's heart, an unprecedented hope is slowly rising, colliding fiercely with his inherent pessimistic perception.

Lin Zheng closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and filled his lungs with the cold air, which carried the complex scent of the city. He seemed to see a blurry shadow: in the long river of history, countless people like John, Mrs. Wilson, and Mike were using their small actions to gather a force, trying to wash away the surface decay and define the value of life with their own choices.

The force was so powerful it shocked him; it was a life force surging from the bottom up and from the inside out, far beyond his comprehension. It challenged all his understanding of the "essence of the world," forcing him to re-examine everything.

Lin Zheng fell into deep thought, a thought devoid of negativity or numbness, but rather a profound reflection imbued with a sense of inquiry. He felt his mind undergoing a dramatic internal reshaping. He suddenly recalled a sentence he had learned in Chinese class as a child, a sentence that had once seemed empty, but now felt as if it had come alive—

What was that phrase again? It was right on his lips, but he couldn't recall it, like an unsolved riddle, just one last clue away from clarity. He desperately wanted to grasp it, because he had a gut feeling that the phrase might be the answer to his inner struggle, or perhaps it could provide a complete context for understanding the power of this "driving force."

The imam patted Lin Zheng on the shoulder, the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric of his coat, steady and solid. He turned to serve soup to the new homeless man, his movements as peaceful and powerful as ever, as if he himself were an eternal, unwavering lighthouse in the city.

Lin Zheng stood there, the bowl of soup in his hand already slightly cold, but at this moment he seemed not to feel the coldness; instead, an inexplicable warmth welled up from the bottom of his heart. The worker Mike's words about "finding a future," and the faces of John and Mrs. Wilson, repeatedly crossed his mind. That powerful vitality—that determination to "do something even in hardship," to "live on and help others live on"—shocked him, yet also felt strangely familiar. He began to wonder if what was truly indestructible in this world was not towering structures and systems, but rather those tiny, tenacious sparks deep within the human heart.

Just then, the light from the streetlights in the distance flickered and distorted very slightly, and a double image appeared for a moment at the edge of the queuing crowd. This distortion was more pronounced than any before; the colors and shapes blurred and stretched for a moment, and Lin Zheng even felt a slight stinging sensation deep in his eyes. It wasn't visual fatigue, but rather an abnormal signal directly received by his nervous system.

This strange phenomenon was so fast it was almost an illusion, yet it made Lin Zheng freeze—"a perfect reproduction of a scene"—finally revealed a clear crack. This crack was no longer a vague guess, but a direct impact on his visual nerves, triggering his senses.

Is it system instability, or is it that his "doubts" and "recollections" have begun to have a substantial impact on this "memory reproduction" process? For the first time, Lin Zheng felt as if his consciousness possessed the power to intervene in or even change this "virtual reality".

Lin Zheng subconsciously rubbed his eyes, trying to catch the distortion of the streetlights again, but everything returned to normal, perfectly flawless. However, he knew it couldn't be a hallucination; the real stinging sensation still lingered deep in his eyes, like a warning that couldn't be erased.

Although the crack disappeared, it left an even more real and indelible mark on his heart. It was like an invisible door that opened up new thoughts for Lin Zheng about the origin of this world.

He looked at the imam, who was calmly handing hot soup to the homeless man in front of him, as if nothing had happened. His calmness made the turmoil in Lin Zheng's heart even more turbulent.