Chapter 234

Zhao Jianguo gently placed the trophy on the table; the candlelight flickered on the glass cover. He finished the last mouthful of porridge, a few grains of rice still stuck to the bottom of the bowl, clinging to the ceramic surface. Voices in the courtyard didn't cease; San Daye was pulling his grandson, teaching him to use the abacus, the beads clacking nonstop.

Early the next morning, a red cloth banner was erected at the Courtyard Gate, bearing the five large characters "Technology Nostalgia Exhibition". San Daye wore a washed‑white Blue Cloth and stood at the gate greeting visitors. Several long tables were pushed together, displaying old‑style abacuses, telegraph machines, hand‑crank telephones, and a dark‑looking radio.

The first to come in was a group of primary school students, backpacks on, squeezing in while chattering. A little boy pointed at the abacus and asked, "Isn't this just a toy?" The teacher beside him quickly pulled him back, saying it was a tool people used for calculation in the past.

San Daye heard it, wasn't annoyed, only smiled and said, "Don't underestimate it; I relied on it to keep accounts back then, I could calculate the water and electricity bills for three hundred households in a day." He flicked a few beads, and the clear sound rang out across the courtyard.

The children still weren't very interested, glancing around and poking here and there; those taking photos took photos, those recording videos recorded videos, and before five minutes were up they were shouting to leave.

San Daye stood at the edge of the exhibit, the smile on his face slowly fading. He lowered his head to look at the telegraph machine, his fingertips lightly brushing the keys. This machine was collected from an old comrade‑in‑arms, and it was said to have transmitted battle reports during the War to Resist US Aggression and Aid Korea.

At that moment Zhao Jianguo came out of the house holding a Tablet. He said nothing, walked to the control box in the corner of the exhibition hall, plugged in a data cable, and tapped the Screen twice. The System Prompt popped up: "Historical scene restoration technique has been accessed, VR module activated."

Soon after, several children put on the borrowed VR glasses, and as soon as they put them on they froze.

The scene before them changed. Wind and snow filled the sky; inside a low earthen hut, a young soldier sat before a telegraph machine, his fingers frozen red, still tapping away. The sound of "dit‑dit" came to his ears, mingled with the distant roar of artillery. A line of text appeared on the screen: "Winter 1957, Northeast Front Communications Station."

A girl took off her glasses, her eye sockets reddened. She whispered to the teacher, "Is that uncle's hand… really hurting?"

Before the teacher could answer, Footsteps sounded at the door. An old man walked in slowly, leaning on a cane, wearing an old military uniform with frayed cuffs. As soon as San Daye saw him, he went forward to meet him: "Grandfather Zhang has arrived!"

Grandfather Zhang nodded, took his stand before the telegraph machine. He extended his trembling hand and lightly touched the sending key. After a while he spoke: "That day it was minus thirty degrees, and I sent out seven battle reports in succession. My hand stuck to the machine, and when I tore it away it brought blood with it."

The courtyard fell silent all at once.

After he finished, no one clapped, nor did anyone speak. Several children gathered around, looking up at him. A little girl pulled out a pen and notebook: "Could you give me your autograph?"

Grandfather Zhang smiled, took the pen, and slowly wrote on the paper: "May your hearts hold fire and your eyes hold light."

At that moment, a couple walked over with their child. The man frowned and said, "Nowadays everyone uses smartphones; what's the use of learning these old antiques? It just wastes the child's study time."

San Daye heard that and stepped forward: "You're right, things are convenient now. But do you know how the Crystal inside smartphones came to be? They were painstakingly accumulated by our generation, bit by bit."

He pointed to the abacus: "This is calculation." Then to the telegraph machine: "This is communication." Then to the radio: "This is information transmission. Without these, where would today come from?"

Zhao Jianguo listened from the side without interjecting. He quietly opened the system and activated the second stage. The Projection on the wall lit up, and a timeline slowly unfurled: abacus → electronic calculator → computer motherboard → smartwatch Crystal structure diagram.

Zhao Xing, one of the Shuang Baotai twins, ran over, holding up his smartwatch and shouting, "Let me try!" He flew through a string of numbers on the abacus, completing addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division in one breath. Then he pressed the watch against it to scan, and the AI immediately announced the result.

"Exactly!" the child jumped up, saying, "One is fast, one is accurate; together they make the most stable!"

Someone in the crowd laughed, and then applause broke out.

The doubting parent scratched his head and whispered to his wife, "It seems… it really is like that."

As the exhibition was about to end, a primary school student tugged at the teacher's sleeve and asked, "Teacher, will the things we invent in the future also be remembered like this?"

The teacher was momentarily at a loss for an answer.

Zhao Jianguo walked over, crouched down to look at the child, and said, "Yes. As long as what you create is meant to let more people live better."

The child blinked and asked, "So if I study hard now, will I also be remembered in the future?"

Zhao Jianguo nodded: "Yes."

After the exhibition closed that evening, San Daye remained alone in the hall. He took a pen and wrote on the back of a display label: "Old objects don't speak, but we remember how they once illuminated the era."

Zhao Jianguo sat on a small bench under the locust tree, flipping through the system's reward description. "The Historical Scene Restoration Technique" not only can restore images, but also capture emotional fluctuations, allowing viewers to truly "enter" the past.

The sound of the abacus came from inside the house; San Daye was teaching his grandson to recite the mnemonic: "One up one, two up two, three down five subtract two…"

Zhao Jianguo lifted his gaze and glanced, the corner of his mouth twitching.

The next morning, several visitors voluntarily left their contact information, saying they also had old items at home they wished to donate for display. Wang Nainai brought an electrician's toolkit, saying it had been used by her husband in his lifetime. Li Yeye brought a yellowed certificate that read "1958 Factory Technical Innovation Advanced Individual."

On the third day of the exhibition, a young man wearing glasses came, stood before the telegraph machine and stared at it for a long time. He asked San Daye, "Could you let me try sending a set of Morse code?"

San Daye had him sit down. The young man tapped a few times, and the sound of dit dit dah dah rang out.

Zhao Jianguo heard it from backstage, glanced at the Data Stream, and the System Prompt read: "Standard Morse code input detected; emotional resonance value meets threshold; memory connection degree increased by 3%."

At lunchtime, San Daye sat beside Zhao Jianguo with his lunchbox and said, "You tell me, isn't it strange? I used to think these things would eventually end up in the Scrap Yard, but now they've become hot commodities."

Zhao Jianguo replied, "It's not that the things have changed; it's that people have begun to understand them."

San Daye chuckled hehe and said, "I'm also planning to add another old‑style generator, the hand‑crank kind. I heard you have one?"

Zhao Jianguo nodded: "It's sitting in the warehouse; I'll have someone bring it out later."

At two in the afternoon, the generator arrived. Its casing was blotched with rust, the crank handle missing a chunk and bound with wire. San Daye personally hooked up the wires and connected a light bulb.

He called the children over and asked, "Who wants to try generating electricity?"

A little boy ran up, gripped the crank handle and turned it hard. The light bulb flickered once and went out.

"Not enough strength," San Daye said. "You have to apply steady force, not jerk it."

The boy adjusted his posture and began to turn the crank slowly. The bulb first glowed red, then grew brighter, and finally shone steadily.

"It's lit!" the children shouted in unison.

San Daye stood beside them, back straight, and said, "See? This is the earliest electricity. Without a power grid, without substations, it's just one person turning the crank over and over to produce it."

Zhao Jianguo stood behind the crowd, looking at that lamp. Its light fell on San Daye's face, making every wrinkle clear.

The system popped up a new prompt: "Civilization memory connection degree has risen to the critical value, unlocking the 'Collective Resonance Record' function."

He didn't rush to open it, but instead slipped the Tablet into his pocket.

At dusk, when the exhibition wrapped up, San Daye wiped down the generator, covered it with a dust cloth, and patted its casing as if patting an old comrade's shoulder.

Zhao Jianguo walked over and asked, "Are you tired?"

San Daye shook his head: "Not tired. In fact, I feel more energetic these years than I did in the previous several decades."

He paused, gazing toward the depths of the Courtyard, and said, "Old Zhao, do you think we old-timers could also take on something new?"

Zhao Jianguo had not yet answered when the sound of an abacus suddenly came from inside the house. This time it wasn't practice; it was a clearly rhythmic piece, and it turned out to be "The East Is Red."

San Daye burst out laughing upon hearing it: "My grandson composed it himself!"

Zhao Jianguo also laughed.

Night wind swept across the courtyard, the locust leaves rustling. The bulb remained lit, powered by the generator; the voltage was unstable, so the light flickered slightly.

San Daye stood beside the generator, reaching out to steady the crank handle.

His shadow stretched long upon the wall.