As soon as she stepped off the plane, it felt like walking into a gas chamber. Throughout March, Beijing had endured more than twenty days of smog.

Xi Tang came to Beijing to meet with Director Tang Yasong, participate in script discussions, and prepare for the preliminary stages of filming.

On the last day of March, Xi Tang finally met Qin Guohuai.

It happened in Tang Yasong’s office at Hua Film Studio. Following her daily routine, Xi Tang went to attend class with the screenwriting teacher. That day, when she pushed open the door, she saw a man sitting in the center of the sofa. He wore a white shirt and gray slacks, his hair unstyled—slightly long black hair falling across his forehead. Hearing the door open, he slightly raised his head. That brilliantly handsome face, with identical features to what she’d seen on screen, though his skin looked somewhat older than on screen, with a few faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

That was the face Xi Tang had gazed upon countless times on screen.

Although she knew he would come sooner or later, she still froze at that moment.

A nearby actor said with a smile, “Brother Huai, Fangfei is here.”

Fangfei was Xi Tang’s character name in the script.

Xi Tang took a few steps forward, stood in front of the sofa, and called out, “Teacher Qin.”

She felt her throat tighten, her voice sounding strange, her heart beating rapidly.

In that instant, too many memories flashed vividly through her mind—her entire youth with his posters on her wall, loving his films, later studying acting techniques while watching him, imagining herself acting opposite him, and now truly facing the same face in person. Xi Tang’s face instantly flushed slightly.

Qin Guohuai himself was very genial and calm. He stood up and shook her hand: “Miss Huang.”

At the morning script discussion, with Qin Guohuai present, Xi Tang was very attentive, somewhat shy, and didn’t say much. Fortunately, no one noticed. After the meeting, when A Kuan came to pick her up, she felt dizzy, and unable to breathe. A Kuan thought she was experiencing low blood sugar from hunger and quickly unwrapped some candy for her. Nearby, the screenwriting assistant Xiao He asked her, “Xi Tang, are you still going to North Street this afternoon?”

Xi Tang nodded.

“See you this afternoon then.”

When the “Spring Comes Late” production team held its first preparatory meeting in Beijing, Director Tang Yasong gave each actor a library card. The address on the card was located deep in North Street Hutong, a private library in Beijing that housed a large collection of precious family letters, photographs, documents, and publications from the period since the founding of the People’s Republic of China until now, especially during the tumultuous decade.

During her more than ten days in Beijing, Xi Tang maintained the routine of going to the library after finishing her training classes each day.

That afternoon, while Xi Tang was searching for documents on the bookshelf, she saw an elderly gentleman with graying hair enter the library, supported by two young people and accompanied by several library staff.

Xi Tang spotted someone familiar.

When Shen Min saw her, he leaned down to say something to the elderly gentleman, then walked over to her.

Seeing her, Shen Min smiled kindly: “You’ve permed your hair.”

Xi Tang touched her black shoulder-length curls: “Yes, for my new role.”

The script for “Spring Comes Late” was so good that Xi Tang herself had shed tears several times while reading it. The female lead, Ding Fangfei, is thirty-four years old, a white-collar worker at a design company, married with a five-year-old daughter. Her husband, played by Qin Guohuai as Zuo Hou, has been married to her for many years, but their relationship has grown increasingly distant. After repeatedly arguing over various trivial matters, they finally argue to the point of divorce. At this time, Fangfei’s mother suddenly passes away, leaving behind a dying wish for Ding Fangfei to find her eldest son in Xining City, Qinghai Province.

Fangfei had never heard of Geermu Farm in Xining City, Qinghai Province.

In her impression, her parents had married and had children late in life, yet remained loving throughout. Her father, much older than her mother, had passed away years ago, and her mother had always respected her father. Fangfei could never have imagined that at her mother’s death, she would be remembering another man.

In 1978, her mother, from a highly educated family, left her husband in Qinghai and her two-year-old son to return to the city. This selfish desire amid a cruel era became her greatest regret. While alive, with a husband and daughter, she dared not face this guilt, but upon her death, she left the majority of her lifetime’s inheritance—an old house in the city district and several hundred thousand yuan in savings—to the son she had abandoned by Qinghai Lake.

Ding Fangfei didn’t know she had a half-brother.

Her mother’s passing brought enormous changes to Fangfei’s life. Her heart was filled with grief, but also with a subtle dissatisfaction—dissatisfied that this brother had taken away part of her mother’s love. She was her mother’s only daughter during her lifetime, yet still had to execute her will. Because she was currently separated from her husband, she had no choice but to take her five-year-old daughter, traveling from the prosperous and affluent eastern China, westward over thousands of miles to find the elder brother she had never met in her life.

Xi Tang said self-consciously, “It makes me look older, doesn’t it?”

Shen Min smiled generously: “It looks very nice.”

Shen Min took her into a section of the library collection that wasn’t open to the public.

Inside were some very private collections that the donors had requested not be open to the public, reserved only for academic research. This included some of Shen Min’s parents’ letters and diaries.

Shen Min said, “I donated my parents’ letters written back to Beijing, as well as my father’s work notes written in Qinghai. There are approximately 300,000 words after organization. I kept a photocopy for myself and donated the originals to Master Tian’s library.”

Having been reading this kind of material recently, Xi Tang was easily moved and felt deeply touched.

Seeing her eyes glistening with tears, Shen Min quickly changed the subject: “The gentleman just now was Master Tian. Did you see him? He’s Zhouzhou’s calligraphy teacher.”

Xi Tang nodded. Tian Jiqing was a great calligrapher, collector, and curator.

Shen Min said with a smile, “Zhouzhou has been practicing calligraphy with him since childhood. Later, the old gentleman sent me there too. My writing is average, but Zhouzhou formally became his apprentice.”

Shen Min took her to tour the collection in this room, walking to a small room at the back. It was a small reading room with a brownish-red large desk and long benches. Shen Min explained that this reading room was not open to the public, but was usually available to graduate students from the history and Chinese departments of several Beijing universities. Today was Monday, and the room was empty. Shen Min brought her in, pushing open the door. While Xi Tang was curiously looking around, Shen Min stood still in the center of the large desk, pointing to a piece of calligraphy on the wall, and asked with a smile: “Can you guess who wrote this?”

Hanging on the snow-white wall was a calligraphy scroll with black ink flowing like clouds, mounted on ebony hangings and brocade coverings. Xi Tang slightly narrowed her eyes, looked up at the three lines of cursive script, and discovered it was a copy of “Yuan She Tie,” which read: “Master and disciple travel far, the road is arduous; upon reaching Baoshang, fortunately, all are well.”

From the time she began participating in the production preparations with the screenwriting teacher in Beijing until she left Beijing for the Qinghai location in June, Xi Tang maintained this habit, coming to this reading room every day to memorize her script. Outside the window grew several green bamboo plants, making it very peaceful.

Sometimes when tired from reading the script, Xi Tang would look up and rub her eyes, and that piece of calligraphy would catch her attention. The strokes were delicate yet powerful, written in one continuous flow as if floating amid wind and returning snow. The characters had no signature, only a small red seal at the bottom of the scroll.

Such a dignified style of writing, coming from the hand of such a proud and aloof person.

One day during a meeting at Hua Film, a colleague from the director’s team called out to her, “Fangfei, Fangfei,” and she naturally turned her head.

It was at that moment Xi Tang knew she had fully entered her role.

Thursday afternoon, Zhao Pingjin had just returned to his office after a meeting when Shen Min followed right behind him.

Shen Min greeted him and spread some documents on his desk: “Development proposals for two newly launched projects need your approval. These are urgent documents, and here is a list of reserve cadres for promotion.”

Zhao Pingjin sat in his chair, picked up his water cup to find half a cup of cold water, and frowned slightly.

Shen Min pressed the intercom, asking the secretary to bring in his usual drink.

Zhao Pingjin pressed his brow and concentrated on the documents before him. After a while, he suddenly looked up at Shen Min: “In a hurry to get off work?”

Since entering his office, Shen Min had checked his watch twice.

Shen Min said, “No.”

Zhao Pingjin checked the time—after 5 p.m., still early. He often worked overtime and had social engagements after work. Shen Min, following him, rarely got off before 8 p.m.

Shen Min suddenly said, “I made an appointment with Xi Tang today.”

Zhao Pingjin’s hand resting on the desk immediately stopped.

Shen Min explained, “I had planned to slip away during work, but didn’t expect your meeting to last so long. I have reception duties later… She needs some materials from the library that can’t be photocopied there, and I promised to bring her a copy.”

Zhao Pingjin heard this but didn’t look up: “You can give it to her tomorrow.”

Shen Min said, “She’s leaving Beijing tomorrow, going to Qinghai to film.”

Zhao Pingjin remained silent for a long time, continuing to flip through the documents in his hand. Shen Min stood motionless in front of his desk.

Without his verbal instruction, no subordinate dared to move.

Zhao Pingjin signed the stack of documents, put down his pen, stood up, and said to Shen Min: “Give them to me.”

Shen Min was stunned.

Zhao Pingjin, frowning, not knowing who he was angry with: “The things you’re bringing her. Give them to me.”

Shen Min said, “Don’t you have other matters this afternoon?”

Zhao Pingjin had already fastened his shirt cuffs and taken his suit jacket: “Check Secretary He’s schedule, and call me if anything comes up.”

The driver saw him come downstairs: “President Zhao, do you need the car?”

Zhao Pingjin said, “I’ll drive myself.”