During the year Lu Yang was pregnant, Li Feng had less time to be at home, always rushing about.
Was this constant busyness the best choice? Looking back, Li Feng thought that if he had to do it all over again, he would still take this path.
If he didn’t go up the mountain, he had to carve out a path elsewhere. There was no other choice.
Lu Yang had written him many letters. Beyond daily life updates, they were full of doubts and reflections. He felt anxious about receiving without contributing—he wanted to do something for the family, help out, so he could accept care without guilt. He needed repeated reassurance from his family: now that he was carrying children, this was also a major matter; he deserved the best, so he could rest at ease, even for a little while.
He was uneasy, yet not afraid. Li Feng listened with a heavy heart.
Both pregnancy and supporting a family were difficult; he hoped Lu Yang would understand that under one roof, the family needed to help one another, each giving something, to make the household thrive. No contribution was too small or insignificant—they were all important.
Li Feng, thoughts swirling, went to his desk, set out ink and brush, and began writing a letter.
He had been busy traveling and had little time to practice calligraphy, though his progress in literacy was decent, and he reviewed whenever he could.
With his clumsy, large characters, he wrote a letter to Lu Yang.
He decided not to open it today; he would wait until he set out for the city to read it. He wanted to leave early, so he could return sooner, be home before Lu Yang gave birth, and stay by his side.
Xie Yan’s latest letter was as before—full of words and illustrations.
After arriving at the prefectural school, he quickly settled into his studies.
Because he experimented with his writing, the types of books he read hadn’t changed much, but his reading was more varied; he would pick up many books just to glance at them, leaving Master Cui baffled.
Seeing him write dozens of variations on a single topic, Master Cui watched for several days, finally unable to contain himself. He said, “The examiners’ preferences are easy to find out. Every year before the exams, people sell that information in the market, not expensive. Save your meal money; there’s no need to torment yourself like this.”
Xie Yan replied, “I don’t care what the examiners like.”
After saying this, he noticed Master Cui’s surprise, realizing belatedly that he had said something remarkable—perhaps even a little charming.
Indeed, it was charming.
Lu Yang had said he looked captivating when diligently copying the library’s books.
Xie Yan immediately put down his work, observed Master Cui’s expression, memorized it, and sketched it on paper.
He was afraid Lu Yang would miss his proud stance, so he drew it from many angles, using Master Cui’s surprise to emphasize the scene.
In the quiet study, without a mirror, he had to imagine all these angles himself.
Lu Yang flipped through the letters like reading a story.
Looking further, he found the same story drawn from many angles, and it made him laugh repeatedly.
After drawing the angles, Xie Yan included a follow-up illustration.
Master Cui took the drawing to examine it. Hearing Xie Yan explain the purpose and placement of the illustration, he took out his ruler and struck him twice.
Xie Yan took the scolding in stride. After the drawings came long passages of text.
He told Lu Yang that although he didn’t yet understand the definition of a “good essay,” he was certain he was on the right track.
Later, Master Cui explained that examiners’ preferences were a ruse. Every year, when people took the provincial or imperial exams, numerous rumors circulated. Most could be accessed without spending money. Many were false, fabricated to unsettle competitors and disturb their focus during the exam. Any influence could make an essay less impressive.
Unfortunately, Master Cui did not explain what it meant for a scholar to “like good writing.” He merely said studying this way was fine, but better to go slow and steady.
Xie Yan continued on the next page, saying he had just eaten, then resumed his letter like a chanting monk, writing down Lu Yang’s words verbatim across more than two pages.
At the back, he drew a small figure of a scholar clutching his head in distress, saying he had made a mistake. When he saw the word “slow,” he became restless.
Tonight, he did not write essays, only letters. He would revise them tomorrow.
On another page, he continued.
He cried a little, admitting he truly understood his mistake, and wrote an essay.
Tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and so on—there are so many tomorrows. He could not wait for tomorrow; he realized he must fix it today.
He wanted Lu Yang’s praise and wrote a good essay.
Seeing this, Lu Yang went to his desk, ground ink, and wrote a hundred words of praise on a sheet of paper.
Like writing, drawing required effort—even if ugly. Lu Yang wrote more than he drew, seldom practicing painting. Seeing Xie Yan’s drawings made him want to learn more, though he had never practiced.
After a moment’s thought, he read Xie Yan’s line “Do not wait for tomorrow, fix it today” twice, then drew a little messy figure of himself and Xie Yan at the back. The drawing was crooked and unclear, but it was Lu Yang praising the village scholar.
This letter maintained the usual format: daily routines with additional notes for special circumstances.
Xie Yan focused on the study room and quiet room. In the quiet room, there were several drawings; the rest were in the study room.
The weather had begun to cool but was not yet bitterly cold. He could adapt, no need to live elsewhere.
He asked his classmates about enduring the winter when the school couldn’t heat the kang. They said the cold was part of scholarly hardship; if you could not endure it, why pursue learning at all?
He added a small line in tiny script, like a secret aside to Lu Yang: he complained that he didn’t understand how anyone could survive the cold.
Lu Yang laughed heartily and added a tiny line in reply: “You’re right!”
He finished flipping through the letters. On the last page, Xie Yan had drawn the prefectural school sky, the small patch of heaven he saw upon leaving class, likening himself to a frog at the bottom of a well.
He wrote beneath it: “Ribbit.”
Lu Yang was so amused he read it all over again.
Longing plants a seed in the heart, wandering boldly, choosing fertile soil to root itself.
One may ignore it, thinking the seed cannot surpass the chest, never revealing a trace.
Yet it grows with astonishing speed, nourished by love, growing stronger each day. Its roots take hold in the heart, seizing the pulse of life. Each breath becomes intertwined.
Xie Yan was too straightforward, too sincere. Lu Yang gradually let go of his unspoken awkwardness and poured out his longing to him.
Recently, he had been peeling scraps of draft paper off the walls—odd behavior.
They were just waste paper, pasted haphazardly. Tearing them left fragments, dust under his nails. Exhausting and thankless. Yet he wanted to do it.
In the village, life had been harsh and hurried. In the cold, they left early and returned late. He had never called that home.
In the shop, the front was for business, the back for living. Crowded and inconvenient, yet warmer. Still, not home.
This small rented house, with chaotic layout, was their home.
Here were many warm memories. Here they could be themselves, laugh, scold, play freely.
It was home, and he wanted to take everything he could with him.
He had so little. Xie Yan said: they only had each other.
Lu Yang had played with him back then, and now wrote in his letters: “I only have you.”
There were some who showed him kindness, some he treated as family—but they all had homes and considerations. He was not the only choice.
Having finished the letter, Lu Yang set down his pen.
It was November. He needed to put on weight.
At home, every meal included meat, and every other day he had soup. He hoped Xie Yan would return plump.
He ate, then went back outside.
