The Origin of Dreams

Year 2023, three o’clock in the morning, location: South Road, Jincheng, Tianfu.

A highway stretches into the distant darkness. On either side, birch trees are neatly planted. It is summer, and the night breeze stirs the birch leaves with a gentle rustling, making the silence of the night even more profound.

A lone motorcycle speeds down the empty road.

Suddenly, a phone rings, piercing the stillness of the night.

The motorcycle gradually comes to a halt.

“Ling’er, be careful when you’re out alone. It’s late, drive slowly!” An elderly voice comes through the receiver.

“I know, Mom. It’s so late, you should go to bed.” The reply is tinged with impatience.

The call ends, and the motorcycle roars off once again.

…

At this moment, Zhang Ling is riding his motorcycle. Others say that the sea of learning is boundless and should be full of excitement, yet he feels as though he has drifted through the first half of his life in a haze. Not, as some idle youth, wasting his days away; on the contrary, Zhang Ling is diligent and hardworking. He studies everything, though nothing captures his interest. Faced with the monotony of life, he often sighs, carrying himself as if he were an old man who has already seen through the ways of the world.

In such a reality, Zhang Ling is like a walking corpse, his eyes devoid of the light that belongs to youth. Yet his features are refined, so outwardly he does not appear as dispirited as he feels inside.

And at this very moment, Zhang Ling has no idea that a strange twist of fate, neither wholly a blessing nor a curse, is quietly drawing near.

Far away, in an observation room of the Ministry of National Defense’s outer space monitoring station, the staff are in a state of alarm. On the large screen, a meteorite is hurtling toward Earth.

The meteorite is not especially large—system checks estimate its diameter at around thirteen meters. But what makes everyone so anxious is that it is heading directly for a city. If it were destined for a remote wilderness, few would care. But all signs indicate it is targeting a place teeming with people. Moreover, the meteorite is of an unknown, exceptionally hard substance. It cannot be destroyed, not even by laser weaponry, nor can its trajectory be altered.

“Minister, the meteorite is harder than expected. Even lasers can’t break it. What should we do?” A staff member, faced with this unprecedented predicament, turns to ask, though he does not take his eyes off his work—his sense of duty unwavering.

This is the first time anyone here has been so helpless against a meteorite. The man addressed as “Minister,” calm and collected, ponders for only a moment before issuing his orders: “Communications officer, contact the local authorities immediately and instruct them to evacuate the area.”

The communicator begins to connect.

When the line is picked up, a cough is heard on the other end. “A call at this hour—what instructions do you have, sir?”

“A meteorite is descending toward South Jincheng Road. I order you to begin an immediate evacuation of all personnel in the vicinity,” the Minister of Defense declares resolutely.

The local official, initially languid, is jolted awake by news of the meteorite. Though any property damage may not concern him, if casualties result from his negligence after this warning from above, his secure government position could be in jeopardy.

He quickly activates all surveillance cameras along South Road. Harboring a shred of hope that perhaps no one is out, he suddenly spots a red motorcycle speeding past one of the cameras.

Seeing that someone is on the road, he hurriedly switches on the roadside broadcast system: “Out racing in the dead of night instead of sleeping—are you looking to die?” He grumbles, even as he opens the broadcast.

He prepares to issue a further warning—

But before he can, the motorcycle comes to a stop. The ground is already glowing red. The rider removes his helmet, revealing delicate features—it is Zhang Ling.

He notices the ground growing brighter and finds it odd. Why is it growing light at three in the morning? He looks up and sees a meteorite hurtling straight toward him. Stunned for a moment, Zhang Ling immediately turns his motorcycle around.

“To think something like this would happen to me,” he mutters, shaken by the surreal turn of events.

He restarts his engine, racing away as the meteorite draws ever closer to the ground. Fear grips him. After more than twenty years of uneventful, ordinary life, suddenly facing such a catastrophe—only he can truly grasp the shock of it.

Just a dozen seconds after Zhang Ling begins his escape, the meteorite crashes to earth, landing not a meter behind where he had been. In an instant, sparks soar skyward, as though all is being consumed. Though the meteorite does not strike him directly, the shockwave flips him over in a heartbeat.

A metallic crash—the motorcycle skids more than ten meters along the asphalt.

Thrown by the blast, Zhang Ling slams into a birch tree and falls heavily to the ground, grievously injured. The pain overwhelms him, and he slowly loses consciousness.

Tianfu is known for its frequent night rains. As Zhang Ling lies there, the sky opens, rain pouring down harder and harder. The meteorite’s surface cools, its glow fading, leaving only the smoking stone and the deep crater it carved. Zhang Ling too is drenched by the sudden downpour.

Though the meteorite has destroyed the nearby cameras and broadcast system, the local official promptly calls the police and contacts the municipal hospital. His anxiety is not out of kindness—after all, the cameras caught what happened, and he failed to warn Zhang Ling in time. Should anything happen, he could not absolve himself.

Time passes. Hours later, ambulances and police cars arrive. The area is cordoned off. Normally, a crowd would gather around such a spectacle, but fearing possible radiation from the meteorite, the police clear the scene. Zhang Ling is loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital.

In the city’s central hospital, Zhang Ling is placed in the critical care isolation ward; the medical staff worry he might have been exposed to radiation.

“Multiple rib fractures and severe blood loss have led to a critical coma. First, stop the bleeding, then set the bones, and finally transfuse blood,” a doctor instructs the team after examining Zhang Ling.

The doctors nod in agreement and begin emergency treatment.

Every second drags by. With Zhang Ling’s life hanging in the balance, the doctors’ nerves and muscles are stretched taut. Meanwhile, police use Zhang Ling’s identification to contact his mother. When she hears of the accident, her heart seems to burst with thunder. Without a word, she hurries to the hospital.

Time’s passage remains unchanged, but for Zhang Ling and his mother, every minute is an agony. Zhang Ling is their only child. The family is not wealthy; his father works away from home year-round. To his parents, Zhang Ling is their whole world. Perhaps it is precisely this that fuels his exhaustion with life, yet also provides his motivation to keep trying.

Inside the critical ward, the doctors work tirelessly. Zhang Ling is in grave danger but remains semi-conscious, acutely aware of the pain from his broken bones.

Seeing his agony, a doctor administers an anesthetic.

Two hours later, the doctors finally emerge from the isolation ward, where a woman in her forties sits on a chair, her expression heavy with worry.

She immediately comes forward, asking the lead doctor, “How is Zhang Ling?” Her concern is palpable.

Hearing her question, the doctor assumes she is the patient’s family. Unhurriedly, he replies, “The patient is seriously injured, but he is now out of danger. We have found no signs of radiation exposure. You may visit him, but please keep quiet and do not disturb his rest.”

Hearing this, Zhang Ling’s mother lets out a long sigh of relief. It is clear that the burden on her heart has finally eased. She enters the ward, sits at Zhang Ling’s bedside, and gently holds his hand. Though it is summer, she feels how cold his hands are. She says nothing more, only quietly murmuring her son’s name.

No one knows a child like their parents. She understands Zhang Ling’s disposition. She and his father have never demanded great success from him—only that their son can live with a smile.

On the hospital bed, Zhang Ling, too, vaguely hears someone calling his name.

“Zhang Ling.”