26: Teacher, I understand.

Lin Que walked out of the Principal's office,

a smile as warm as a spring breeze on his face.

With his sincere admission of fault and determined look to do better,

the Dean of Students, who was seeing him out, couldn't help but pat his shoulder,

sighing with emotion, "A child truly worth teaching."

Wu Di rushed over immediately, his face full of tension:

"Brother Que, how was it? The Principal didn't discipline you, did he?"

"Discipline?"

Lin Que raised an eyebrow, casually fanning himself with the envelope containing his prize money.

"The Principal said something about a five-thousand-yuan scholarship reward and recording a major merit."

"What?!"

Wu Di's eyes nearly popped out.

"Holy crap, Brother Que!"

"Does your family have some kind of connections? Look out for your little brother here!"

How did an article criticized so harshly by the Chairman of the Writers Association become a reward in the Principal's eyes?

What was wrong with this world?

Lin Que didn't bother explaining the intricacies to him and slowly returned to his seat.

He could guess that Professor Li Yuanchao must have played a role behind the scenes.

This old professor truly and sincerely cared for him as a promising young talent.

Too bad,

this talent was 'crooked' from the very roots.

The last period of the afternoon was Chinese class.

Shen Qingqiu walked into the classroom, her gaze instinctively sweeping toward the back row.

When she saw that Lin Que wasn't lying down sleeping as usual,

but was instead sitting up straight, holding a book and reading,

a flash of surprise and relief crossed her eyes.

Throughout the entire class, Lin Que behaved like a model student.

No whispering, no dozing off—

he even nodded along when Shen Qingqiu asked questions.

This made Shen Qingqiu's mood much more pleasant while lecturing.

As soon as the bell rang, Shen Qingqiu closed her lesson plan:

"Lin Que, come with me for a moment."

Again?

The class's collective gossip spirit flared up once more.

They all watched Lin Que's retreating back.

In the office.

Shen Qingqiu poured Lin Que a cup of water—treatment he had never received before.

"I heard about the Principal's talk with you."

Shen Qingqiu's tone was softer than it had ever been.

"I'm very glad you've come to your senses. Lin Que, I've always said your talent is top-tier; as long as you use it on the right path, your future is limitless."

Lin Que picked up the water cup, took a sip,

then looked up at Shen Qingqiu with an unprecedentedly serious gaze.

"Teacher, I understand now."

He paused, his tone sincere.

"Yesterday, I finished reading that copy of 'New Tide' you gave me.

After reading 'The Miracles of the Namiya General Store,' I couldn't sleep all night."

Shen Qingqiu's eyes lit up:

"Oh? Any thoughts?"

"My thought is that my previous path was too narrow."

Lin Que's face showed a perfectly measured amount of self-reflection and shame.

"I used to think that ripping open the world's scars was depth.

But Jian Shen made me realize that true depth is knowing how to stitch those scars back together."

"His writing is like light, just as you said. Whereas the things I wrote before..."

He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

"At most, they were just a few stinging grains of sand. The scope was too small, not even worth mentioning."

These words caused a great weight to lift from Shen Qingqiu's heart.

She felt that her long-term efforts were finally being rewarded at this moment.

"The fact that you can think this way proves you've truly grown up."

Shen Qingqiu's voice carried the pride of a teacher.

"In the future, keep working in this direction.

Don't write things like 'firefly' that take such extreme risks anymore.

I believe with your talent, you might even become a figure like Jian Shen in the future."

"Thank you, Teacher."

Lin Que stood up and gave a deep bow.

"I will definitely work hard, absorb positive energy, and live up to your expectations."

Watching Lin Que's retreating figure, Shen Qingqiu leaned back in her chair and let out a long sigh of relief.

She felt that she finally had control over the situation.

She even began to look forward to what kind of surprise Lin Que's next essay would bring.

...

Night.

SOHO Future City, 28th floor.

Lin Que threw himself into his ergonomic chair.

He turned on his computer but didn't log into Hong Guo Net.

Wang Shouyi was likely still fuming; updating now would be like handing him ammunition.

Better to let him suffer for a few more days in the embers of his internet-wide social death.

He clicked on the dedicated email for "Jian Shen."

Xu Lan, the editor from "New Tide," had already sent several emails.

The latest one was a massive compressed file.

[Hello, Jian Shen! These are the first batch we've screened from the mountain of reader letters.

We've made some preliminary categorizations based on the content. Have a look and see if anything interests you.]

Lin Que extracted the file.

Inside were scans of hundreds of letters, divided into folders like "About Dreams," "About Love," and "About Family."

He casually clicked on the "About Dreams" folder.

[Jian Shen, I'm an art student. I paint very well, but my parents think it's not a proper career and are forcing me to take the civil service exam. What should I do?]

[Jian Shen, I'm thirty-five this year. I'm a low-level manager at a mediocre company, but I've always had a rock and roll dream. Is it too late for me to quit and start a band?]

...

Most were common life troubles.

Lin Que browsed through them quickly, his finger sliding unconsciously over the mouse.

Answering these questions wasn't hard for him.

When he was a screenwriter in his past life, he had studied countless character profiles and psychological models.

He could easily provide the most standard, soul-soothing answers.

But this was different from the feeling of writing a novel.

In a novel,

he could play God and manipulate the characters' fates.

But here,

he was facing real, living human beings.

He was just about to close the folder,

when his gaze was caught by the title of the last letter.

It was an uncategorized letter with a title consisting of only two words:

[Help Me]

Lin Que's heart stirred, and he clicked it.

The stationery was the cartoon kind used by elementary students,

complete with a cute rabbit pattern.

The handwriting was also that of a child—

crooked, but each stroke written with great effort.

[Hello, Grandpa Namiya.]

[My name is Xiao Duo, and I'm nine years old. My mom says that if you write your troubles in a letter and put it in a magical general store, you'll get help. Is this that general store?]

[My trouble is that my dad always hits my mom.]

[He hits her when he's drunk, and he hits her when he's not drunk but in a bad mood. Mom is always covered in bruises, and she cries secretly at night.]

[I'm scared.]

[I told my teacher, and the teacher talked to my dad. But that night, Dad hit Mom even harder. He also said if I dared to talk nonsense again, he would beat me to death.]

[Grandpa Namiya, I don't want to stay in this house anymore.]

[I want to take Mom and run away, is that okay? Where should we run to?]

At the end of the letter was a smiley face drawn with a red crayon.

Except that from the eyes of that smiley face, two crooked tear tracks—also in red—were flowing down.

...