258: Chapter 258 The Story Collector is Gone—Sponsored Bonus Chapter of "Yu Xi Is Not Open for Business Today"

On the twenty-fourth morning in Sarajevo, the mist had yet to fully dissipate.

Lin Que deftly navigated the old street pockmarked with bullet holes, stopping before a vegetable stall.

The stall owner, Milosevic, was just about to shift a pile of slightly wrinkled green peppers to the back.

Seeing Lin Que approach, his hands froze mid-motion, and he let out an awkward, dry chuckle.

'Don't bother hiding it, Uncle Milosevic.'

Lin Que said in Bosnian tinged with a local rustic accent, casually pulling out a fresh bundle from beneath the stall.

'I haven't settled the score with you for yesterday's two marks yet. If you dare slip any rotten leaves into today's onions again, I'll go tell Mrs. Zola.'

The bearded man's mouth twitched, and he helplessly raised both hands.

'Lin, you're sharper than any local! Take them, take them! Consider me afraid of you!'

Lin Que grinned, tossed down a few coins, picked up his net bag, and turned to leave.

Over these past twenty-some days, he was no longer the wide-eyed tourist who first arrived.

He had learned to haggle fiercely over a few pfennigs at the market, just like the locals.

He had learned how to tell which bakery offered the best value.

He had also grown accustomed to climbing up to the rickety attic every morning to retrieve the fat cat named 'Berger' from the roof,

and, while there, gazing at the city's sunrise from the dust-covered tiles.

The black notebook was now bulging, its page edges frayed and curled.

It was no longer filled with the ethereal, cloud-floating prose of 'the ferryman', but densely packed with the scars of this city.

Bullet holes, tombstones, cheap onions, and countless people like Zola, struggling to live on amidst the ruins.

Back at the apartment, Lin Que stood on the balcony.

On the distant hillside, a sprawling sea of white tombstones shimmered under the morning sun, their light harsh and glaring.

The wind swept through, making those tombstones resemble some kind of silent crop.

'This is that world.'

Lin Que murmured softly, his fingers gently rubbing the notebook's rough cover.

The skeleton of that book had finally taken its complete form in this foreign land's wind and snow.

It needed no ornate prose, no heart-stopping twists. It only needed to be as honest as this land itself.

Lunchtime.

The kitchen was filled with the monotonous smell of boiled potatoes.

Holding a dinner knife, Lin Que sliced the somewhat hardened potato on his plate and spoke, feigning nonchalance:

'Mrs. Zola, my train is tomorrow morning.'

*Clatter.*

The spoon in Zola's hand, meant for feeding Berger, knocked against the edge of the ceramic bowl, scattering a few pieces of cat food on the floor.

The fat cat let out a dissatisfied meow, but Zola didn't scold it as she usually would.

Her back stiffened for a moment, then she bent down to clean up the cat food from the floor,

not turning her head, her voice still carrying that familiar, sarcastic edge:

'Oh, is that so? Well, thank heavens. Finally, I won't have to hear your elephant-like footsteps anymore. This damn old floorboards might last a few more years.'

Lin Que looked at that slightly hunched back, smiled, stuffed a piece of potato into his mouth, and said nothing.

Despite her harsh words, the atmosphere at the dinner table that evening became subtly different.

The enamel pot, usually treated by Zola as mere decoration and rarely used, now sat firmly in the center of the table.

When the lid was lifted, steam billowed up, and a rich aroma wafted straight to the nose.

It was beef stewed in Bosnian red wine.

The chunks of meat were cut astonishingly large, the flavors of red wine and spices perfectly melded, the sauce so thick it clung to the spoon.

In Sarajevo, a pot of meat like this was worth half a month of Zola's living expenses.

'Eat it, eat it all.'

Zola's face was stern, her spoon moving as if with a grudge,

constantly shoveling meat onto Lin Que's plate until it formed a small mountain.

'Aren't you going to have any?' Lin Que looked at the few lonely carrot pieces on Zola's plate.

'I don't like greasy things like this. They make me nauseous just looking at them.' Zola wrinkled her nose in disgust, viciously spearing a carrot with her fork.

'The doctor says old people should eat more vegetables. Buying too much beef is a waste, and it just costs electricity to keep in the fridge.'

Lin Que looked at the pot of stew still steaming with heat, then at Zola's hands, rough from years of toil.

He lowered his head, eating the meat in large mouthfuls, forcibly swallowing back the warmth welling up in his eyes.

This was probably the most 'expensive' meal he'd eaten in two lifetimes.

After the meal.

As if performing a magic trick, Zola pulled a glass jar from the deepest recess of the cupboard.

'Take it.' She thumped the jar down in front of Lin Que.

It was fig jam.

Lin Que remembered Zola saying she had made it herself last autumn.

Usually, it stayed sealed in the cupboard's deepest corner. Berger would get a smack for getting near it, and she herself couldn't bear to eat it.

'Take this with you.'

'It's too sweet for someone my age to handle. You young people have strong teeth. Take it for the road, spread it on bread. Don't let it go to waste.'

Lin Que held the jar, still warm from her touch, his fingers tightening.

'Alright.' He accepted it with a smile, his voice slightly hoarse. 'I'll take care of it for you.'

Late at night, the rain started again.

The two of them sat on the old sofa in the living room, a soothing folk song playing on the radio.

The ceiling lamp Lin Que had repaired cast a warm, yellow glow.

Lin Que placed the thick notebook on his lap, looking at Zola with unprecedented seriousness in his eyes.

'Mrs. Zola, I've thought about that story you mentioned.'

Zola pushed her glasses up, her gaze falling on the notebook, but she said nothing.

'Although the main character isn't you, or even from this country,' Lin Que said softly.

'He's like you. Someone who, in the midst of a broken, wretched life, grits his teeth and keeps his backbone straight.

He might never leave that patch of yellow earth in his lifetime, but he lives more heroically than anyone.'

Zola stared at the notebook for a long time, finally taking off her glasses and wiping them with the corner of her apron.

'Don't write him as some crybaby weakling.'

She put her glasses back on, her tone stiff.

'Tears aren't worth anything. Don't let people laugh at him.'

Lin Que nodded heavily.

Early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking.

The mist in Sarajevo hadn't lifted, the air carrying a hint of coal smoke.

Lin Que stood at the door, suitcase in hand.

He took an envelope from inside his coat and placed it on the shoe cabinet in the entryway.

Zola glanced at the envelope, and her previously calm face instantly darkened.

'What is this?' She snatched up the envelope, felt its thickness, and her eyebrows shot up immediately.

'Boy, are you trying to humiliate me? I said how much the rent was, and that's it! I won't take a single mark more!'

She grabbed the envelope, ready to pull out the extra banknotes and throw them back at Lin Que.

'Don't be so hasty, old lady.'

Lin Que pressed down on Zola's hand, that signature roguish smile appearing on his face.

'This money isn't for you.' Lin Que picked up the fat cat rubbing against his trouser leg.

'It's for Berger.'

'For Berger?' Zola was taken aback.

'This fat cat has gotten spoiled by me these past days, demanding canned meat every day.

If I leave and he doesn't get his meat, he'll definitely get depressed.'

Lin Que spoke utter nonsense with a straight face.

'Consider this his pension. Think of it as you taking care of him for me, alright?'

Zola looked down at the carefree cat by her feet, her lips moving slightly.

She looked into Lin Que's smiling eyes and, in the end, didn't insist on returning the money.

She just snorted coldly and tucked the envelope into her apron pocket.

'Meddler.'

Lin Que smiled.

He took a step back, standing on the worn, nearly threadbare doormat outside.

Just like the first time he arrived, he carefully, vigorously scraped the soles of his shoes until he was sure not a speck of mud remained.

'Mrs. Zola.'

Lin Que looked up at this old woman who had lost all her family in the war, who guarded a house full of ghosts, yet still kept her life meticulously in order.

'You always say you're just an old woman forgotten by the times, an eccentric who only knows how to scrub floors.'

Lin Que's voice was very soft.

'But in my eyes, you're more of a hero than any written in books.

In this ordinary world, to suffer with dignity is, in itself, a form of greatness.'

Zola's previously straight spine seemed to lose some of its strength the moment she heard those words, sagging slightly.

A film of moisture suddenly welled up in her grey-blue eyes, always so sharp and scrutinizing.

That shell of hardness she'd worn for a lifetime cracked open a fissure at that moment.

'Don't you go saying such mushy things to this old woman.'

Zola turned away in a fluster, her back to Lin Que, waving her hand dismissively.

Her voice carried a distinct tremor and sob, no longer able to maintain that haughty coldness.

'Go on! Go! Don't miss your plane!'

'And... Lin! Don't forget your promise to me! Write that story well! If you mess it up, I'll come find you in the East and settle the score!'

'Don't worry.'

Lin Que said nothing more.

He picked up his suitcase, took one last look at this address full of stories, turned, and strode down the stairs.

The sound of the young man's footsteps faded into the distance.

Zola stood behind the curtain, her fingers clutching the thick velvet fabric tightly.

She didn't pull the curtain open, only peered out through the narrow gap.

On the stone-paved road below, the young man's shadow was stretched long by the rising sun.

Only when that shadow had completely rounded the street corner did Zola let go.

She looked down at the fat cat licking its fur by her feet, her lips moving,

as if wanting to curse something, but in the end, she just sighed.

The corners of her mouth, always tightly drawn, curved into a long-absent, gentle smile.