Chapter Thirty-Three: Come, Let Us Seek the Scriptures Together!

Early the next morning, Zhang Ying, who had barely slept all night, got out of bed. Without doing anything else, she picked up the phone and called the props team leader from the crew she’d delivered to the night before.

On the other end, the voice was thick with sleep; clearly, the man hadn’t woken up yet.

“What is it, calling so early?”

“Oh, good morning, Brother Chen, I’m from Zhang Ying Studio. May I ask if the props I sent last night were used?”

“Huh? You called this early just to ask that? Yes, we used them. Pulled an all-nighter and didn’t finish setting up the interior until after two.”

“How did you feel about the props, Brother Chen?”

“We were all dead tired last night—who had the energy to pay attention to that! But whether the props are good or not, it isn’t up to us to say. That’s up to the director.”

“Oh, I see… Well, if the director thinks anything’s not right when he comes, just give me a call and I’ll redo it for you.”

“Things are so rushed, who’s got time for you to redo it? All right, I need to get back to sleep. That’s it.”

Hearing the busy tone, Zhang Ying frowned. Moving quietly, she saw it was only five-thirty. She scratched her head. But since she couldn’t fall back asleep, she simply washed up and headed to her studio.

...

By seven in the morning, the Rongdian Film Base was already bustling with activity at the set of the period drama "Spring Dawn."

The shooting schedule for "Spring Dawn" had actually been completed, but after rough cuts were made, the producer at the company wasn’t satisfied, feeling that the main characters were still too thinly drawn and the ending lacked emotional impact.

The directing team held a meeting and decided to add a few extra scenes to patch things up.

Thus, a crew that had been ready to wrap up was thrown into even more frantic work.

At 7:15, Director Jiao Chendong arrived on set. After briefly instructing the heads of each department, he walked into the newly dressed interior set.

“Morning, Director!”

“Director Jiao, you’re here?”

He nodded in greeting to those who called out, then swept his gaze over the set.

“Hm?” He had only intended to get a sense of the setup, but the moment his eyes landed on the room styled after the 1970s, his expression grew distant.

“Lighting! Stagehands!” he called out.

“Here!” The lighting technician and stagehand hurried over. “Director, what do you need?”

Jiao pointed at some workers still bustling about in the set, then at the lights that were still off. “Turn on the lights, and have the workers clear out for now.”

“Got it!” They understood right away that the director wanted to see how the set looked, and quickly followed his orders.

In no time, as the workers withdrew, the set grew quiet. The lighting tech flipped the switch.

As the yellowish bulbs overhead came on, tinged with a gentle, warm glow, Jiao Chendong’s eyes widened in instant astonishment.

He was in his forties. Over the years, childhood memories had long since been washed away by the river of time.

But looking at the sofa draped with a white, knitted curtain; at the wall where a perfectly framed certificate of merit hung straight; at the kitchen counter where a lunch box seemed to have just been warmed over a smoky stove; at the desk covered with a thick pane of glass, beneath which were work schedules and old photographs, and on top of which sat a thermos wrapped in a thick cloth…

Every detail, bathed in the lazy, gentle light, became the switch of a time machine. In an instant, his memory fast-reversed forty years.

In a daze, he saw a fading silhouette in the empty house slowly take shape.

That figure, with a canvas schoolbag and sweat streaming down—yes, he’d been playing outside with friends all morning, exhausted and thirsty.

The figure tossed his bag, stuffed with comic books, onto the sofa, grabbed the thermos. But the water was too hot; after a quick sip, he stuck out his tongue from the scald.

Another form gradually appeared on the sofa.

“You remember to come home, do you?”

“Grandma, you’re home? I’m hungry!”

“You little monkey, running wild out there without a care! It’s mealtime and you still don’t come home—aren’t you afraid you’ll starve? Just look at you, all worn out—are you trying to worry your grandma to death?”

“Heh heh!”

“Don’t you ‘heh heh’ me! Food’s in the lunch box. Eat while it’s hot. Your dad’s work canteen made glass noodles today—he sent some home special. I saved it just for you!”

“Thank you, Grandma! You’re the best!”

The small, skinny boy leapt onto the sofa, burying his head in the old woman’s arms. She smiled kindly, set down her brimming sewing box and the never-ending pile of old clothes to mend, and patted his head with her wrinkled hand.

On her finger, the thimble she’d used for years, too precious to throw away, was riddled with holes.

Jiao Chendong felt as though he were standing right beside the sofa, those two affectionate figures almost within reach.

He didn’t know when, but his eyes had grown hot; something wet traced his cheek, turning cold only when it reached his neck.

“Director, are you all right?” A prop manager gave him a nudge, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Damn it!” The precious memory, sealed for so long and just now unearthed, was abruptly shattered; those two nearly tangible figures vanished in an instant.

The aged face that had left him decades ago disappeared before his eyes, and he cursed instinctively.

His sudden outburst startled everyone behind him.

Realizing his lapse, Jiao pointed at the props in the room and asked, “Who made these props?”

The props team leader, seeing the director’s agitation, ventured, “Director, is something wrong with the props?”

Jiao wiped his eyes, voice trembling with excitement, “This is outstanding work!”

A collective sigh of relief ran through the crew.

The props team leader patted his chest, half boasting, “Thank you for the compliment, Director. I led the team myself!”

“Get out! If you were this talented, would you still be working here? You’d have been poached by Zhang Yimou or Feng Xiaogang ages ago! Now, tell me—who really made them?”

With his bluff exposed, the team leader looked awkward, but seeing Jiao’s piercing gaze, he could only mumble, “We were in a rush, so we outsourced all the small props.”

“To which company?”

“Not a company, just a studio. Uh… one of the shops on Props Street—called Zhang Ying Props.”

“Must have cost a fortune?”

“No, their rates are low. You know we’d already blown our budget…”

Hearing this, Jiao nodded deeply, recalling that fleeting, time-traveling sensation. He murmured, “This studio has real talent.”

After a moment, he wiped away the lingering tears and waved to the crew. “Enough gawking! Get to work. This set is perfect—don’t mess it up!”

Then he told the stage manager, “When the lead actress arrives, send her to me. I want to walk her through some extra details.”

“Understood, Director!”

As everyone scattered to their tasks, Jiao pulled aside the props team leader.

“Director, anything else?”

“You all finished after this scene?”

“Yes, Director. Why?”

“Once we wrap this shot, you and the costume and makeup teams will all go to Zhang Ying Studio for me.”

“What?” The props manager’s face fell. “That’s a long way to go—why?”

“To learn! Go and study with the people who made these props—learn how period drama props should really be done!”

“But Director, we’re about to wrap the whole shoot. What’s the point? We won’t even use what we learn…”

“Who says you won’t? The company gave me a new script yesterday. Our next project is another period piece. If the props are up to this standard, and we get a few good actors, I’m confident I can make a comeback!”

“But Director… we barely slept last night…”

“You’ll go now, and when I finish this shot, I’ll go with you for the lesson!”

Seeing the props manager’s reluctance, Jiao glared, his temper flaring.

...

Around noon, Zhang Ying’s studio was quiet.

At the workbench, Zhang Ying poked at a bowl of rice noodles, not eating a bite. Li Xiaomeng, already swallowing a mouthful of food, asked, “Ying-jie, the noodles are all clumped together. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Oh,” Zhang Ying’s mind was still on the batch of props from the previous night. Called back to herself by Li Xiaomeng’s question, she replied, “I’m not hungry.”

Seeing that Li Xiaomeng and Liu Shuang had finished eating and were cleaning up, she stuck her chopsticks in the plastic bag and handed them to Li Xiaomeng. “Xiaomeng, I’m done. Please throw these out for me.”

“Okay,” Li Xiaomeng replied, picking up the untouched noodles and heading outside to the trash bin.

Shuffling in her slippers, Li Xiaomeng had just stepped out the door when she saw several cars pull up across the street, sirens blaring.

A large group of people jumped out, faces grim, following a familiar leader, and strode straight toward the studio.

Her eyes went wide as saucers.

Crash!

The leftover food in her hand spilled all over the ground.

Not caring that soup splashed over her little white bunny slippers, she whirled around and dashed back inside.

“Ying-jie! The guy from that film crew who ordered props—he’s here with a whole crowd! He… he must be here to trash the place! You’d better run out the back door!”

Seeing Li Xiaomeng burst in, face covered and shouting, Zhang Ying and Liu Shuang exchanged startled glances, alarmed at once.