Chapter Thirty-One: Ye Shengtao Was Moved to Tears (Please Keep Reading)

"Ah, what fine tea."

An old man and a young man sat before the tea table, savoring their brew, their spirits gradually easing.

"I won't hide it from you, sir; I've brought my work today. I hope you can offer your expert critique," Cheng Kaiyan said, setting down his teacup and replacing the lid.

"Hmm, I had already guessed as much. I’ve been looking forward to seeing exactly what kind of 'sent-down youth' novel a lad like you could write." Ye Shengtao nodded, then watched as Cheng Kaiyan handed over a briefcase.

It was made of black leather, a style currently in vogue. It was a favorite among teachers, editors, and office workers for its durability and generous capacity—Ye Shengtao even owned one himself. However, this particular bag was stuffed to the brim, the leather surface bulging from the pressure of the manuscript pages packed inside.

As Ye Shengtao took it with his weathered hands, he felt a sudden weight that caught him off guard. He looked at Cheng Kaiyan in surprise. "Just how much have you written? This must be a major full-length novel, at the very least?"

"It’s not too much. I've only finished the first volume and about half of the second. There’s still nearly half left to go. All in all, it’s about 130,000 words so far," Cheng Kaiyan explained, lowering his head to take a sip of tea.

Ye Shengtao’s eyelids twitched. Good heavens! Lu Xinhua’s *The Scar* was a mere 8,000 words, and Liu Xinwu’s *The Class Teacher* was only 10,000; anything over 20,000 or 30,000 was already considered a long story. And this boy claimed 130,000 words was only half finished? Was he planning to write a sprawling epic?

Setting aside the quality for a moment, just looking at the sheer volume of text—how long would that take to get through? Ye Shengtao couldn't help but worry for himself; he was an old man now, and focusing on over a hundred thousand words was a daunting task.

Cheng Kaiyan was unaware that his handiwork had caused the octogenarian such distress. However, having given his word, Ye Shengtao took out the thick stack of manuscript pages, retrieved his reading glasses from his pocket, and began to read with solemn focus.

The pages were filled with elegant, steady handwriting in ink. The lines were neat, with very few ink blots; even where corrections had been made, they were marked with two simple, clean horizontal lines. A quick glance confirmed it was tidy. Ye Shengtao nodded with satisfaction. He had been asked to review manuscripts before, but often they were written in a chaotic scrawl. The writing reveals the person, he thought—this young Comrade Cheng was quite impressive.

He continued to read.

"'Fragrant Grass? Fragrant Grass... why is there no spring? Because there has never been a spring here...'" Ye Shengtao repeated the words, pondering their hidden meaning. Before long, the old man was holding the manuscript, completely immersed in the story.

Cheng Kaiyan knew this wouldn't be a quick affair, not with over a hundred thousand words to get through. He stood up, leaving the study to Ye Shengtao, and said, "Sir, I’ll go for a stroll. Please, carry on reading, and just call me when you're finished."

"Mmhmm..." Ye Shengtao, his expression grave, waved a hand dismissively.

Cheng Kaiyan left the study and wandered into the courtyard. As he reached the garden, he saw Ye Zhicheng and his wife tending to the plants, watering flowers and pruning branches.

"Didn't you bring a novel for my father, Comrade Cheng? Why have you come out?" Ye Zhicheng was also getting on in years—born in 1926, he was already in his fifties. His wife, Yao Cheng, was a drama artist.

"He's still reading it," Cheng Kaiyan explained. "I think it might be quite long."

"How many words?"

"Over a hundred thousand."

"That will certainly take some time."

The three of them chatted as they worked, and soon, it was lunchtime. Yao Cheng, who had set aside her career as a drama artist to become a homemaker, had spent the last few years looking after Ye Shengtao, who was frequently ill. She checked her watch and said, "Oh my, it’s already noon. I’ll go ask Father what he’d like for lunch. By the way, Comrade Cheng, you’ll stay and eat with us, won't you?"

"Yes, you've made the trip here; the old man will likely be finished by the time lunch is over," Ye Zhicheng added. It was normal for a man of letters to get lost in a manuscript—he himself was an editor for *Yuhua*, a journal under the Jiangsu Literary Association. But he knew his father was a literary giant; even his own manuscripts had never held the old man’s attention for this long! A flicker of curiosity stirred within him—what kind of masterpiece had this young man written to keep his father so captivated?

"That sounds fine, thank you for the hospitality," Cheng Kaiyan replied after a moment's thought.

Yao Cheng walked into the study to ask about lunch. Upon entering, she saw the old man slumped in his chair, clutching the thick stack of pages, muttering to himself: "How many times I look back at the road I’ve traveled... I wish you well, kind girl. How many times I look back at the road I’ve traveled, you standing there by the small village..."

Seeing such simple yet emotionally charged words, she felt a heaviness in her chest. As she stepped closer, she noticed the old man’s eyes were red and brimming with tears. She was startled. "Father? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?"

"Phew... I never expected that at my age, I could still be moved to tears by a novel." Ye Shengtao took off his glasses, let out a long sigh, and tremblingly wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes.

When Yao Cheng heard this, she realized it was because of the young man’s manuscript. She could hardly believe that a mere draft could reduce the old man to tears. It was incredible! People had all sorts of reactions to books they enjoyed, but to be moved to tears was rare—especially for a man. As the saying goes, a man does not easily shed tears.

With complex thoughts, Yao Cheng quietly retreated from the study. She walked into the courtyard and whispered a few words to her husband.

"What?"

"Is that true? Father actually cried?"

"Yes, he really did. It seems the story young Cheng wrote is a tragedy."

Upon hearing this, Ye Zhicheng couldn't help but widen his eyes in shock, looking first at his wife and then at Cheng Kaiyan.

"What's the matter?" Cheng Kaiyan asked, sensing their hushed urgency.

"Nothing. Please, have a seat, Comrade Cheng. Your Auntie Yao is going to prepare lunch, and I’m going to go check on Father," Ye Zhicheng said, turning to head into the study.

"Father? Why are you crying? Is it really that moving? What exactly has young Cheng written?"

"A novel with the potential to become a classic!" Ye Shengtao said firmly after a moment of contemplation.

"What?"

Ye Zhicheng’s heart skipped a beat. To hear such an evaluation from his father—how good could this novel be? He quickly picked up the manuscript and began to read, slowly falling under its spell.

It wasn't until his wife came to call him for lunch that he was jolted back to reality. He finally understood why his father had wept. This was no mere tragedy; it was a world composed of countless tragedies. More chillingly, this world of sorrow actually existed, unfolding in every corner of the land, right before their eyes.

Ye Zhicheng did not forget the line he had seen at the very beginning of the manuscript:

*This story is based on real events.*

Why is there no spring... because there has never been a spring!