Little Pink Starfish

An Zhe had a dream.
The sound of rain, pattering and continuous—the sound of rain.

Raindrops splattered onto wide leaves, flowed down the crisscrossed veins, dripped from the edges into the shrubs below, ran along the roots of ancient trees, seeping into the damp soil. It was a humid rainy season. He seemed to have experienced many such scenes. His memory began there—the whole world was a rainstorm.

He floated down from under the cap of a mushroom, falling into the soil with the wind before the rain began. He seemed to be sleeping all along, until he smelled the moisture of post-rain air.

Everything was out of his control. In the damp soil, hyphae stretched out, lengthened, branched, extended outward, aggregated. From a spore smaller than a grain of sand, he grew into a clump of initial hyphae, then drew out a stalk, and grew a cap.

Everything followed its natural course. Mushrooms, unlike humans, didn’t need teachings passed down generation to generation. He had no impression of the mushroom that created him, but he clearly knew what in the soil he needed to absorb—it was as if this was the instinct he was born with. He also knew in what season he should be born, what to do, and in what season to die. His life’s mission was to produce a single spore.

Then it would grow again, die again. Its spore would continue to grow. In the sound of endless rain through the ages, countless spores drifted down in the passage of time.

The sound of rain rustled constantly in his ears, all around him, in his body, in his mind, in his memory. It was everywhere, as if urging something to happen. What followed was a kind of wave from a distant sky, boundless void, endless terror—until he suddenly opened his eyes.

The quartz clock on the wall pointed to 9 a.m. No one was beside him. The blanket was tightly wrapped around him. But the feeling of Lu Feng’s arm around him seemed still there—the warmth remained on his skin, searing bit by bit. Lu Feng had originally held his upper body, from the shoulder downward, but in the middle of the night, his arm had gone numb, so he pulled it out. The man’s arm then fell slightly, resting on his waist, the palm gently brushing against his abdomen.

When Lu Feng held him, it felt like it kept all danger out. He felt very peaceful. But this person himself was a great danger. An Zhe couldn’t even remember with what mood he had fallen asleep again in that embrace.

An Zhe looked at everything before him, his thoughts completely blank. He moved his fingers; even the joints felt soft, like after a too-long afternoon nap, his whole body was drained of strength.

The air around was so damp, like after a fresh rainfall.

He recalled that strange, bizarre, seemingly prophetic dream and sat up in bed, extending his hand. To take the spore out from his body felt too cruel—only a certain military officer surnamed Lu would do such a thing. He controlled the spore’s movement within his body, and three minutes later, a mass of white hyphae stretched out, surrounding the spore, appearing in the center of his right palm.

When it had been placed inside him, it was only half a palm-sized clump of spore—now it had grown to the size of his clenched fist.

He studied it carefully under the gas lamp’s light. At the tips of the hyphae, tiny antler-like branches had emerged—glowing with a translucent luster, like snowflakes. Its form was beginning to change.

He reached out with his left hand to touch it, and it affectionately wrapped its hyphae around his fingers. He could feel its vibrant, flourishing life—it was nearly mature.

He didn’t know the exact time it would mature, but it would be soon.

Their hyphae would no longer intertwine. It would become an independent mushroom, capable of living on its own. The moment it matured, it would leave him on its own—just like he had once fallen with the wind.

Planting the spore—this was the only thing mushrooms could do. Where should he plant it? Would it grow up in a distant future? An Zhe didn’t know, only felt a faint melancholy before parting—as if all tangible things in the world were meant to be separated.

Just then, a sound came from the hallway. His spore first raised its hyphae as if listening, then perked up with energy and rolled toward the source of the sound, like one magnetic pole rushing to another. An Zhe quickly cupped it in both hands and, just before Lu Feng came in, managed to return this ungrateful little thing into his body.

Lu Feng stood at the doorway and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Get up,” he said.

An Zhe obediently got up to eat. In the following days, they lived like this—An Zhe helped Xibei cook and tidy up the mine. Lu Feng often went outside. Every time he left, An Zhe feared he wouldn’t return—but the colonel always came back safe and sound. Sometimes he even brought back a small bird for them to roast.

Most of the time they had nothing to do in the cave. An Zhe finished reading all the books there and, under the colonel’s request, read him a romance novel and a full weapons catalog—the man was too lazy to flip through them himself.

Later, it was all simple games: Gobang, Ludo. Lu Feng taught him first, then they played together. An Zhe lost more than he won, secretly letting him win—because every time he won—

During meals, Xibei said, “People in the cave used to fall in love too.” He sighed, put down his chopsticks, and added, “I want to fall in love too, but there’s no one else here.”

Lu Feng said nothing. An Zhe comforted Xibei, “There are people at the base.”

—Even though only 8,000 remained.

Xibei seemed consoled and perked up, picking up his chopsticks again.

Seven days later, communications still hadn’t recovered. Xibei brought them bad news: food supplies wouldn’t last more than two days. They had to go to the ruins of a city several kilometers away to search for supplies.

So they left some dry rations for Grandpa, packed the rest, and brought several bottles of water. Xibei fetched a small alcohol stove from the kitchen—the miners hadn’t all died, so the equipment was still intact.

“We’d opened a dirt road before, could ride bikes,” Xibei said a bit regretfully. “Now it’s turned to sand—can’t ride anymore.”

So, before leaving, An Zhe looked longingly at the pile of bikes in the corner. He hadn’t seen bikes before.

Lu Feng draped an elbow over his shoulder and lazily said, “I’ll take you riding when we get back.”

Just as they finished preparations and were about to open the hatch at the top of the cave, slow, heavy footsteps came from the depths of the mine.

An Zhe turned around. In the dim light, a frail old man leaned against the wall, slowly making his way from the corner. His hair was gray and disheveled, lips constantly quivering, like a pale candle flame flickering in the wind.

Xibei stepped forward: “…Grandpa?”

The old man’s murky gaze fixed on him, devoid of light, as if he didn’t recognize him. He opened his mouth and said, “I’ll go too.”

Xibei held his shoulder. “You can stay here. We’ll be back in a day or two. We’ll bring food.”

The old man still rasped, “I’ll go too.”

No matter how Xibei tried to stop him, that was the only thing he said. His muddled, dazed face showed an unusual clarity because of this insistence.

Xibei had no choice and looked to Lu Feng for help.

Lu Feng looked at the old man for a long time and said, “Bring him.”

Xibei agreed and helped the old man outside—his staggering steps shaky and frail. Anyone could see that this life at dusk was nearing its end.

At the cave entrance, Lu Feng said, “I’ll carry him.”

Xibei shook his head. He carried his grandfather on his back, saying, “Grandpa is very light.”

An Zhe looked at the old man’s frail body. Illness had reduced his flesh to a brittle skeleton.

They came to the surface. Daylight poured down. An Zhe squinted, taking a moment to adjust.

He saw Grandpa resting on Xibei’s back, eyes closed. His face was covered in age spots that surfaced in humans at life’s end, but in the sunlight, he looked peaceful.

His lips moved, and he said a sentence.

“Humans grow on the ground.”

It was the only thing Grandpa had said in days that wasn’t incoherent.

An Zhe looked up at the gray-white sky. At this moment, the sky showed a faint green glow—one could see auroras even in daylight. It was different from before.

Lu Feng said, “The magnetic field’s tuning.”

An Zhe nodded. He didn’t know what that meant, but as long as the magnetic poles were fine, everything would be fine.

On the sand, they trudged step by step. In the vast empty wilderness, it felt like they were the only living beings. The wind blew from unknown places—ten thousand years, a hundred million years—it always blew. Creatures came and went, died and were born, but the wind never changed. When it blew into the cracks of stones, it created strange, long cries across the plains.

In that distant crying, An Zhe instinctively tugged on Lu Feng’s sleeve and followed him.

Lu Feng gave him a faint glance: “Want me to carry you?”

An Zhe shook his head—he could walk on his own.

Lu Feng said nothing and looked ahead again.

After walking some more, An Zhe got tired of pulling, his arm sore. In recent days, as the spore matured, his stamina seemed to decline. He wanted to let go, but didn’t quite want to either.

Lu Feng moved his wrist slightly. An Zhe understood—he was annoying the colonel. So he obediently let go.

Then, Lu Feng took his hand and held it.