My name is Lin Yan, and I am a repairman of old things.
Guarding a small shop at the end of an alley in the old city, grinding out jammed tapes and twisting stopped clocks, I always felt that there were unfinished words hidden in those discarded voices.
Until that rainy day, the old man sent a vinyl record.
The lines on the disk are like tides, and when the needle falls, silver-blue light diffuses out - I hear the valley in the fog humming, the flowers on the sand trembling, and a very light word, as if to say "It's time to come."
When I opened my eyes again, I had fallen into a piece of breathing moss.
The fog here wraps the sound, the dead leaves sing the memory, the caller weaves the body with sound waves, and even the silence is warm. And the petals I picked up from the old clock in my arms turned into blue-gray leaves, singing a tune that has no beginning or end:
"Flowers on rocks bloom in the sand..."
Later I learned that some of the sounds had not disappeared, but were waiting for someone willing to cross the fog and sand to sing them to the world again.
And the flower that blooms at the end of memory is half soaked in the fog of Echo Valley and half buried in the sand of the land where the voice was lost. The roots are entangled with all the unspoken "remembers".
——This is a story about sound, silence and bondage, like the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, like the stars in the desert, gentle enough to catch all the forgotten weight.
Purpose: Using sound as an anchor, explore love and self-salvation in an imaginary world, and use the wonderful setting of Echo Valley to convey the warm power of "encounter heals loneliness, and resonance reshapes oneself"