133: wind from the north

The studio was very quiet, with only the crisp clicking of a mechanical keyboard.

During this time, the literary debates, Ye Xi's piano music, Yan Fang's stubbornness, and even Mom's plate of sweet and sour pork ribs had invisibly permeated the texture of this brand-new ending.

the ferryman should not just be a fairy tale about death; it was more of a metaphor for "return."

If Tristan was the soul who forever ferried others, then Dylan was the spark that awakened the ferryman's self-awareness.

Lin Que's fingers danced rapidly across the keyboard, typing out the final chapter.

In the document, Dylan made that crazy decision.

She wanted to go back.

She refused to stay in that safe house, which had no pain but also no waves; she wanted to return to that wasteland full of evil spirits and danger to find her ferryman.

Because love is a stronger obsession than death.

【Dylan pushed open the door leading to the real world.

The cold wind was biting, that bone-chilling cold unique to the Scottish Highlands, but this time, she no longer felt fear.

She saw that figure.

Tristan sat at the edge of the wasteland, that once indifferent ferryman who only knew how to execute tasks, was now like an abandoned child.

"Why did you come back?" Tristan asked, his voice trembling.

"Because I don't want to go to heaven alone," Dylan replied.

"If you aren't there, it's no different from hell."】

Lin Que stopped and took a sip of the cold water beside him.

He remembered the piano music in the music room that Ye Xi described as "full of insults."

For Ye Xi, so-called heaven was that perfect world filled with flowers, applause, and a Steinway piano room.

It was safe and noble, but it had no warmth, and no freedom.

And what she wanted, perhaps, was just to find someone on that wasteland who could understand her chaotic playing.

Lin Que continued typing.

The ending was no longer staying in that wasteland.

【Dylan took Tristan's hand, walking back step by step against the direction of all the souls moving forward.

They passed through the roars of evil spirits and the fear within their hearts.

Until finally, they returned to the scene of the car accident.

The light was blinding, and the siren was sharp.

Dylan opened her eyes, her body in excruciating pain; that was the pain of being alive.

She lay in the ruins, surrounded by anxious rescue workers.

She turned her head and saw, not far away, the boy in the trench coat, standing blankly in the crowd, looking at his own hands.

He was no longer a soul; he had a shadow and warmth.

He had crossed the boundary of life and death, and for the sake of one soul, he had abandoned his eternal duty and become a mortal.

Tristan looked up, his gaze cutting through the noisy crowd and landing precisely on Dylan.

At that moment, all the wastelands disappeared.

"Hi." He said.

"Hi." She smiled, and tears streamed down her face.】

Typing the final period, Lin Que leaned back, resting against the chair, and let out a long sigh of relief.

It was over.

True ferrying wasn't just about sending someone to the other shore and calling it a day.

It was about giving someone the courage to open their eyes, even when amidst ruins and covered in pain, and say "Hi" to this shitty world.

Just like Ye Xi, even if bound by rules, she still dared to smash out her own rhapsody on the Steinway.

Lin Que checked for typos, then opened his email and clicked "Compose."

Recipient: New Tide - Wang De'an; New Tide - Xu Lan.

Attachment: the ferryman Final Chapter.doc.

He wrote only one line in the body of the email:

【The wasteland has come to an end, and the ferryman should also come ashore. This is the end, and also the beginning.】

Click, send.

Lin Que closed his laptop and stretched.

The sound of the wind outside the window seemed to have tightened.

This wind passed through Jiangcheng from the north, heading all the way south, blowing into Jinling, over three hundred kilometers away.

...

Winter in Jinling was different from Jiangcheng.

It always carried a damp, cold chill that seemed to seep into one's very bones.

South of the city, the Yihe Road Mansion District.

This was the best-preserved cluster of Republican-era architecture in Jinling, where the branches of plane trees intertwined into a net under the dim yellow streetlights, shutting out the hustle and bustle.

In a small Western-style building with green bricks and grey tiles, the study light was still on.

Gu Changfeng, draped in a thick zhongshan suit, sat before a mahogany desk, holding a steaming cup of Yuhua tea.

Several photocopies were spread out on the desk, densely covered with annotations in red ink.

Those were all the articles Lin Que had ever written, from firefly》 to coco》, and even the speech draft that had recently caused a sensation on the forum.

"Ring-ring—" The red landline on the desk rang abruptly.

Gu Changfeng put down his teacup and answered the phone:

"Old Gu, not asleep yet?"

A familiar, resonant voice came from the other end of the line, carrying the distinct rhotacized accent of Beijing.

Gu Changfeng smiled and leaned back:

"Disturbing someone's sleep so late, Brother Wenyuan, that's hardly the custom over in Beijing."

The person on the other end of the line was none other than Zhou Wenyuan, the Vice Chairman of the Beijing Writers Association and a pivotal figure in the domestic literary world.

"Oh my, it's my fault then. Shall we talk another day?"

"Looks like you received the material?"

Gu Changfeng, with a faint smile, naturally knew the purpose of Zhou's call.

"Received it, just finished reading it."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, before Zhou Wenyuan's slightly raspy voice came through:

"There aren't many young people nowadays who can write with such ruthlessness."

"Oh? How so?"

Gu Changfeng asked, feigning ignorance, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.

"This kid's writing is sharp."

Zhou Wenyuan seemed to be weighing his words.

"I've read so many articles by young people, but this kid is different.

His writing cuts in with extreme precision, dissecting right to the end, drawing blood and hitting bone, yet he leaves you a breath of air at the end, making you feel warm."

"Especially his discourse on 'ferrying' on the forum you hosted."

Zhou Wenyuan sighed.

"This kind of insight into human nature—let alone a high school student, even the pillars in their forties in the Writers Association might not possess this level of clarity."

Gu Changfeng took a sip of tea, his tone quite pleased with himself:

"That goes without saying. Otherwise, why would Old Liang and I have broken protocol to issue him that honorary membership card?

You wouldn't believe it, when this kid was at the meeting in Jinling, that 'wild spirit' of his made Zhenyun's face turn green!"

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end.

"Old Gu, you didn't send these to me just to show off that your province produced a genius, did you?"

Zhou Wenyuan changed the subject, his tone becoming serious.

Gu Changfeng reined in his smile, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk:

"Brother Wenyuan, how is the preparation for the Qinglan Project proposed at the last national Writers Association meeting coming along?"

"Still going through the process; it certainly won't be that fast."

There was a trace of fatigue in Zhou Wenyuan's voice.

"You wouldn't know, recent meetings have all been about bickering over this.

These young people nowadays, either what they write no one reads, or they just write absolute rubbish.

The state has started to vigorously support the cultural industry, wanting us old folks to come out of retirement, pull up a few decent new seedlings, and throw some live fish into this stagnant pool."

"About when can it be implemented?"

"According to current progress, I estimate it'll be next October."

Zhou Wenyuan paused.

"Old Gu, you don't mean to..."

Gu Changfeng didn't speak.

"Old Gu, have you thought about one question?

The original intention of this plan is aimed at adult writers who already have a certain creative foundation, or young talents in universities.

That kid, he's only seventeen, right? Still in high school.

This... it doesn't follow the rules."

Gu Changfeng paused:

"Rules are dead, people are alive.

If our profession also has to queue by seniority, then the literary world might as well just turn into a nursing home."

"Besides... if it's next October, he'll be an adult by then!"

"That's the logic, but this is hard to handle."

Zhou Wenyuan's tone became a bit more serious.

"This plan is a national-level project, with so many eyes fixed on those few spots.

If we push a high school student up directly, not only will it break the rules, but it's equivalent to roasting him over a fire; by then, the spit-flying criticism alone could drown this child."

Gu Changfeng fell silent for a moment, watching the swaying tree shadows outside the window.

"Then let it be based on his own ability."

Gu Changfeng's smile lines bunched up, his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the mahogany desk.

"Although this kid has a bit of fame in our province now, in the eyes of the national mainstream literary circle, he's still an outsider.

He needs a stepping stone, a stepping stone hard enough to smash all doubts."

"You mean..."

"Before that, isn't there a national essay contest?"

A flash of keen light passed through Gu Changfeng's eyes.

"That 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition', it's about to start, right?"

"You mean, let him participate in that?"

Zhou Wenyuan was somewhat surprised.

"Although that competition doesn't compare to the Qinglan Project, it does possess significant prestige nationwide."

"If he can place in this competition, then I'll propose him for the Qinglan Project, and who could have any objections?"

On the other end of the line, Zhou Wenyuan pondered for a long time, and finally laughed heartily.

"Alright, Old Gu, since you have such confidence in him, I'll wait in Beijing. As long as he can break through the siege, I'll reserve a spot in the Qinglan Project for him!"

"It's a deal."

Hanging up the phone, Gu Changfeng looked at that ID photo of Lin Que on the desk.

The teenager in the photo had clear eyes, with a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corners of his mouth.

"Kid Lin, I've paved the road for you."

Gu Changfeng muttered to himself.

"Next, whether you're willing to walk it, and how far you can go... that depends on your own ability."