“Late Spring” had an internal screening at Huaying Studios. The next day, Huang Xi Tang accompanied her mother to watch it.

Her mother had said she feared she wouldn’t live to see the public release.

Ni Kai Lun arranged everything, personally bringing the film’s security key to a small screening room within the company. She invited Xie Zhen Bang. Xi Tang brought A Kuan, while Ni Kai Lun brought her assistant to accompany the mother and daughter to the theater.

The youngest audience member was Ni Kai Lun’s son, an eleven-month-old baby sitting in a stroller, accompanying his mother into the screening room.

Shortly after the film began, the baby fell asleep in Ni Kai Lun’s arms, and the nanny came to take him out.

Ni Kai Lun had already seen portions during test screenings, but watching the final cut, she still cried. Xi Tang thought perhaps becoming a mother had made her more emotionally vulnerable.

Xie Zhen Bang remained her closest male confidant, one of Xi Tang’s few male friends. Her mother didn’t know this and still believed the young pair harbored mutual affection. Xie Zhen Bang had read about this period of Chinese history many times in foreign media, and although he didn’t fully agree with the film’s somewhat heavy-handed patriotic tone, he was very considerate and remained silent throughout.

Xi Tang sat with her mother in the theater for a while, then left A Kuan to accompany her mother while she went to the office to review scripts.

She had never been comfortable watching herself on screen. Having already experienced those emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness—herself, watching them now created a strange sense of detachment.

That was Ding Fang Fei’s life, not hers. Her work was already complete.

After nearly ten years in the industry, Xi Tang didn’t need to watch to know that in this film, both she and the actors she had worked with had invested themselves emotionally.

After leaving the theater, the driver and nanny took the family members home. Back at the office, Ni Kai Lun collected herself for a moment, then called Huang Xi Tang in. Her voice was now calm and forceful: “Darling, it’s time to reshuffle the positions of top actresses in the entertainment industry.”

The Thirteenth Master was urging her to renew her contract.

Ni Kai Lun wouldn’t allow it.

Ni Kai Lun quietly told her: “We’ll negotiate renewal terms after you win Best Actress.”

The film hadn’t even been released yet, but Ni Kai Lun was truly formidable.

“Late Spring” had wrapped in October. From preparation to completion, the entire film took nearly two years to make—longer than any television drama Xi Tang had ever filmed—but she felt deeply satisfied.

After Ni Kai Lun completed her postpartum confinement, the family hired a nanny to care for the child. Xi Tang’s mother was in poor health and needed weekly hospital visits, so they hired an ayi to cook.

For nearly two months, Huang Xi Tang was essentially on break.

Ni Kai Lun returned to her office after meeting with the publicity department, quite unhappy: “When will you start posting on Weibo again?”

It had been almost two years since she had logged into her account.

Huang Xi Tang sat at her desk, head lowered in silence.

“It was just a few photos. They’ve been deleted.”

Xi Tang looked up, her eyes glistening with tears: “No.”

For an actress on the rise, taking such a long break was extremely risky. The company even spent money to maintain her public exposure.

Fortunately, by December, the post-production of “Late Spring” was progressing smoothly with a release date in sight. Promotional activities intensified, and Ni Kai Lun thanked Heaven and Earth that she could finally send Xi Tang back to work.

If she had stayed at home every day cooking with her mother and caring for the child, she couldn’t have continued as an actress.

“Late Spring” was released to the public in the spring of the following year.

As willows sprouted new buds and spring waters flowed, the pink and white cherry blossoms at Yuyuantan began to bloom in March.

On a Thursday evening, the compound’s auditorium hosted an event celebrating International Women’s Day, with leadership organizing female cadres to watch a film. Zhao Ping Jin happened to be off that day and at home. Teacher Zhou asked her son to accompany her, and Zhao Ping Jin agreed.

In the small screening room of the organization’s auditorium, Zhao Ping Jin arrived with Teacher Zhou to find that all the female comrades from the entire family compound had gathered, including white-haired retired aunties who had specially returned for the occasion. Glancing around, Zhao Ping Jin noticed several leaders from the Political Publicity Department seated in the front rows.

Zhao Ping Jin naturally knew this film was about to be released. A month earlier at a dinner, Gao Ji Yi had abruptly mentioned to him that her new film had been submitted for review without a single cut, only two lines of dialogue changed.

Zhao Ping Jin was stunned for a second, then recovered and replied, “Thank you.”

On the big screen, in a northwestern rural village, the June sunshine was bright and dazzling. Ding Fang Fei’s five-year-old daughter ran joyfully through a courtyard where corn was drying. Behind her followed a large yellow dog and a small boy with a runny nose. The yellow dog was the family’s local breed, and the boy was the daughter’s nephew—a five-year-old aunt and her six-year-old grand-nephew. The boy had dark, shining skin with yellow soil embedded in it, wore a coarse cloth jacket, and was the grandson of Ding Fang Fei’s eldest brother in the northwestern village.

The siblings who had never met in half a century walked one after another toward the depths of the farmland.

Ding Fang Fei had asked to see her father’s grave. After her mother left, this northwestern man had been both father and mother, raising the child alone and never remarrying.

Ding Fang Fei thought to herself, that her mother had truly sinned.

The man carried a hoe on his shoulder, leading her along the ridges between fields. Fang Fei held incense and candles in her arms. She asked, “Do you still remember her?”

The taciturn man heard this, remained silent for a moment, then shook his head.

After walking a while longer, he told Fang Fei: “I heard villagers say she was a university student from the city, very educated.”

Standing at the grave, Ding Fang Fei took out a photograph: “This is her memorial portrait. Would you like to look?”

Fang Fei burned the photograph.

As smoke rose in wisps, her fifty-year-old brother leaned on his hoe, standing at their father’s grave, facing the lush green wheat, and broke into loud, uncontrollable sobs.

The theater filled with the sound of weeping.

Ms. Zhou cried uncontrollably.

In the darkness, Zhao Ping Jin passed her a handkerchief and patted the back of her hand: “Please don’t cry anymore.”

After the film ended, around ten o’clock when the event concluded, Zhao Ping Jin helped his mother walk out. Along the way, acquaintances greeted them: “Zhou’er, accompanying your mother to watch?”

Zhao Ping Jin greeted them first: “Auntie Fan.”

“Oh, Teacher Zhou, your son is truly filial.”

Ms. Zhou smiled with satisfaction.

The two reached the outside of the auditorium as cars arrived one after another to pick people up. Zhao Ping Jin’s car was parked some distance away, so the mother and son walked slowly toward it. Zhao Ping Jin smiled and said: “The film was good, wasn’t it?”

Teacher Zhou evaluated objectively: “The Ministry of Culture’s project this year is quite good.”

Zhao Ping Jin remarked: “You were busy shaking hands with the leaders earlier, you probably didn’t read the credits.”

Teacher Zhou looked at him: “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you see the lead actress’s name?”

Ms. Zhou was suddenly stunned.

Zhao Ping Jin said casually: “Huang Xi Tang, the girl who played Ding Fang Fei, who cried half the time—you didn’t recognize her?”

Ms. Zhou’s impression of Huang Xi Tang was still that of a college girl, and so many years had passed that her appearance seemed somewhat different now. She truly hadn’t recognized her at first. Teacher Zhou remained composed: “The young lady has grown up to be quite beautiful.”

Zhao Ping Jin smiled at his mother: “Thanks to your breaking up the lovebirds, otherwise she would have been your daughter-in-law.”

Ms. Zhou’s smile became somewhat stiff.

Turning her head, she saw Zhao Ping Jin’s face—his fair complexion bearing a smile, without showing a trace of emotion. He waved at her: “Wait a moment.”

Zhao Ping Jin walked to his car in the compound, opened the door, locked it, swallowed a pill with trembling hands, and pressed his clenched right fist against his abdomen, curling up against the seat.

After resting with his eyes closed for a few minutes, Zhao Ping Jin started the car and drove to pick up his mother.

Ms. Zhou stood under the tall locust tree in the compound, pondering her son’s attitude. She knew he and Yu Xiao Ying were already in a semi-separated state. Zhao Ping Jin returned home only once every ten days or two weeks, mostly living at Baiyue Residence. This daughter-in-law was also a formidable character—ever since she had clarified the matter about children with her mother-in-law, she hadn’t spoken to her again. She still accompanied Zhao Ping Jin home on weekends, and Zhao Ping Jin didn’t neglect his duties toward the Yu family either. The two lived together peacefully.

But they certainly couldn’t be called a loving couple.

Ms. Zhou had seen too many couples like this—enduring for twenty or thirty years until their sixties, surrounded by children and grandchildren, still a harmonious family.

But she wasn’t sure how her son planned to live his life.