Rebirth: Starting from Lighting Up the Tech Tree

The wind blows from Hangzhou.

No one saw where it came from. It passed through the osmanthus tree in front of the 402 headquarters building, a new one, its second bloom of the year. The wind swept a few petals up and into the air, then released them back to the ground. The tree didn't move. The flowers had already fallen once; it wouldn't mind falling again. The wind continued on its way.

It passed the Space Museum Plaza. The Pioneer sat silently beneath its protective shield, its aluminum hull bathed in the pale gold of the evening light. A very low whistle whistled through the gaps in the hull—not from the engines, but from the air swirling in the ducts. The wind slid along the edge of the porthole, landing next to the words the welder had etched: "Brother Cheng. The ship is ready. Go fly." The wind carried away that speck of dust, as if wiping away the words for it. The ship no longer needed to fly; the wind had flown a short distance for it, stirring up a speck of dust on the hull before gently setting it down.

The wind swept through the open draft on the control panel of the Starsea cockpit. Jian Ning's pen was still in place. The latest line was half-written, the rest blank. The wind lifted a corner of the page, then set it down again. The rainbow halo outside the window shifted by a fraction of a degree, just right. The unfinished sentence had stopped at noon; the evening wind came, turning the page over and then back again. The wind didn't take away any words, it merely turned the page for her. There was no one in the cockpit, but the quantum light outside the window circled, as if greeting the wind.

The wind passed over the empty flowerpot beside Su Yuan. A cactus once grew in it, brought down from the rooftop of Shenzhen by Zuo Cheng. The cactus had been transplanted to the edge of the quantum light stream at the home port, where it bloomed with golden flowers. The flowerpot was empty, the soil dry and uncracked. The wind circled the empty flowerpot, taking nothing with it. The flowerpot was waiting. Waiting for what? The wind didn't know. But the wind remembered the flowerpot's location, so that the next time it blew from that direction of the home port, it could bring back a little of the residual warmth of the quantum light stream.

The wind swept through the scanning plaza at node 027. The artificial aurora had just ended. Not a speck of dust remained on the plaza. This civilization had been cleaning it every day for countless billions of years—first waiting, then sweeping, and now sweeping itself was routine. The wind passed through the plaza, carrying nothing, but it also carried a tiny scent of osmanthus, from a new osmanthus tree countless light-years away. The sweeper paused, his hand holding the tool, but didn't turn back, continuing to sweep. But today he swept an extra circle. Not because of the osmanthus, but because of the strong wind.

The wind passed by the spot where he was still brewing tea. He had brewed another cup today, the tea leaves numbered. The wind brushed past the rim of the cup, creating very faint ripples on the surface of the numbered tea. He didn't rush to drink it, watching the ripples spread out and then settle down. Only after the ripples had completely disappeared did he pick up the cup and take a sip. The tea was still warm. The wind was outside the window, he was inside, and the cup was warm.

The wind passed through the window of journal 048. It was recording a passing spaceship it had observed that day. The spaceship didn't stop, but it flashed past as it went, like the first time in billions of years someone had flashed at it. The wind lifted a corner of the page. 048 didn't press it down; it looked at the page blown by the wind, paused, and then added a line to the journal: "It was windy today. The wind blew the paper up. I couldn't hold it down. The wind was right." The spaceship outside the window had already gone far away, but its fleeting flash remained in the wind's memory.

The wind passed in the direction of the onlookers' gaze. They had all been looking in the same direction for a long time today—the direction of the extinct civilization that had said thank you. The wind blew from that direction. There was no sound, no signal, no last words in the wind. Only the lingering warmth of a sentence once spoken deep in the universe remained; after the photons had completely redshifted away, only the direction itself remained. The onlookers did not blink. The wind passed through their gaze without interrupting them. The wind was not a signal; it simply traveled in the same direction.

The wind passed along the edge of the netting where the field watcher once stood. The gap remained. The field had grown into a forest. The wind whistled softly as it passed through the gap, easily ignored by anyone amidst the noise at the bottom of the netting. But at the very bottom of the netting lay a deep, secluded storage unit, a small blank note left by the field watcher. The note contained no words, only a mark sculpted by the wind. That mark would not disappear, for the wind passed through it once a year.

The wind passed through the woven canopy of the tree. Every leaf in the canopy was turned over by the wind, not just a page, but a surface, each side of the leaf being caressed equally by the same gust of wind. Deep within the roots, the virtual osmanthus tree sensed the wind's presence, loosening its fibers slightly to allow the wind to penetrate deeper. Not resistance, but making way. As the wind passed through the roots, it carried away a tiny osmanthus fragrance, not plucked from any flower, but a memory of fragrance stored in the roots for many years. The wind carried this fragrance onward, unaware of its own presence. But the tree knew.

The wind swept past the porch beside Zuo Cheng. He wasn't sitting by the door today; he stood in the wind. The wind blew from his left, flipping up a corner of his collar. He ignored it. The wind carried with it everything accumulated along the way: the scent of osmanthus, the lingering warmth of the digital tea, the afterimage of the spaceship's flash, the whistle of the field watchman through the crack, and the memory of floral fragrance stored in the tree roots. Zuo Cheng stood in the wind for a while, then moved the chair on the porch half an inch. Not to shelter from the wind, but to let the wind sit. The wind didn't sit, but it lingered a little longer at the edge of the porch. Zuo Cheng didn't turn around. He stood in the wind, his collar still flipped up, like a porch inspector giving silent permission to the only visitor of the day who didn't need to ask questions.

The wind finally passes by the window leading into the room.

Zuo Weiyang stood by the window. The window was closed, and her hand was already on the handle. She could feel the wind outside, not through touch, but through the shadow of the newly blossoming osmanthus tree outside, its branches trembling gently. She watched the shadow tremble several times, each time with a different rhythm. It wasn't the wind knocking on the door; it was the wind saying, "I'm outside, you're inside. It's okay, I'll open it when you're ready."

She took a deep breath and pushed the window handle up to open it.

A breeze rushed in through the window. It wasn't cool, it was warm. There was a scent in the wind, not of osmanthus, but the indescribable fragrance left behind by the farmer before he left, the scent lingering at the bottom of the netting. It wasn't a fragrance, nor was it warmth; it was the faint trace left in the crack of the door, billions of years after he was gone, a trace of someone having stood there. Zuo Weiyang stood in the draft, the wind passing through her hair. She closed her eyes and then opened them again. The osmanthus tree outside the window was still trembling, but not out of fear of the wind, but out of welcoming it.

She opened the window a little wider.

It hasn't stopped. It won't stop. Every leaf has turned. Every corner has been visited. Everyone standing in the wind is in the wind. The wind needs no answer, no direction, no destination. The wind just keeps blowing because it is wind.