From the adjacent side room came the sizzling sound of oil splashing as substantial dishes hit the wok, with rich aromas floating from one end to the other. The Chinese main courtyard, which everywhere exuded a sense of luxury, suddenly sank into the mundane world of cooking fires, instantly erasing all sense of distance.

Old Master Ji’s nostalgia for the past was genuine, his feelings for timepieces were genuine, and his expectations for craftsmanship were genuine too.

Never before had Shen Qianzhan understood the elderly man before her so deeply.

When she worked on projects, she invested her true heart, put in genuine emotion, and gave her all. But many times, projects were like commodities—to cater to market demands, please audiences, and satisfy investors’ aesthetics, she had to make compromising changes.

Shen Qianzhan’s only advantage was perhaps that now her voice mattered, people listened, she had authority, and could choose among numerous commercial subjects those she liked, wanted, and loved.

Clock restoration was different.

It carried history—whether the surface jade and precious stones or the internal springs and gears, all bore the marks of their lifetime’s journey. Restoring these journeys, recovering that history, was complex and enormous.

Without love, who could endure the tedious, lonely restoration work?

Even though the documentary about restoring the Mufan Clock had long faded from public view, Shen Qianzhan still remembered from the documentary how Ji Qingzhen would carry a thermos bottle to get soy milk from a breakfast shop in the alley, then cycle into the restoration institute.

The tile walls in the early morning still bore frost and dew. He would move a chair to sit under the corridor, finish his soy milk, and in the warmth of the rising sun, change into his work clothes and enter the room to repair timepieces.

The dusty national treasure had its dust swept away bit by bit with a dust brush. Each connection was carefully removed, numbered, and sealed. From cleaning to restoration, the clock face required day after day, year after year of endless work.

Every morning in different seasons and weather, he would punctually pass through the alleys, taking that movement—like the heart of a timepiece—from rusty and spotted to clean as new, continuously completing missing parts, repairing mechanisms, and restoring vitality.

Clock restoration had only one goal from beginning to end—returning to the track of time.

Pure and clear.

“I remember when I first approached you, you asked how much I understood about clock restoration. TV dramas have one conflict per episode, one major event every three episodes, but problems encountered in clock restoration usually take a long time to resolve. At your pace, my project would probably become a second clock restoration documentary, and you told me to quickly change subjects and consider something practical.” Shen Qianzhan still remembered Old Master Ji’s gaze when he held his glasses and sized her up, as if she were just a charlatan seeking audience attention out of curiosity.

Ji Qingzhen obviously remembered too. He smiled and pressed his lips together, adopting the same attitude as Ji Qinghe’s choice to ignore things he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I don’t mean anything by it.” Shen Qianzhan smiled very humbly: “This conversation with you has made me realize that I’m still shallow in my knowledge of non-professional fields, and I need to learn more from President Ji when I have time. To be honest, before coming, I kept thinking about how to answer this question to appear more professional and profound, to impress you.” She pressed her lips and chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with scattered light like stars, mottled as the Milky Way: “Now it seems my intellectual level still hasn’t passed. Some questions don’t need to be answered with words at all—action is the best answer. One of the difficulties in scriptwriting is exactly what you once questioned—the contradiction between actual problems and the fixed conflicts in dramas. I won’t choose to avoid this real issue.”

“Coming here today is also to make a statement. I will do my best with ‘Time,’ not disappointing the dedication of old craftsmen, not pandering for ratings, not mythologizing the practical significance of clock restoration, and steadily film a good drama.”

Ji Qingzhen’s earlier impression of Shen Qianzhan hadn’t been particularly good.

Though she knew and observed propriety, her purpose was too strong and extremely aggressive.

The first time Ji Qinghe mentioned Shen Qianzhan was during a video conference with Meng Qiongzhi and several executives. Ji Qingzhen, as an observer, heard his grandson use official business tone to abuse his private authority, with that meeting ultimately giving special approval for the investment.

The second time he heard Ji Qinghe mention Shen Qianzhan was the evening after returning from abroad. While Ms. Meng was delicately enjoying barbecue, he mentioned that Dr. Fei was currently in Beijing, hinting that it was convenient for his check-up. As the conversation deepened, he casually mentioned that Dr. Fei’s reason for being in Beijing was to perform bypass surgery for Shen Qianzhan’s grandfather.

The flaws in Ji Qinghe’s roundabout tactics were too obvious. Ms. Meng’s curiosity was aroused, and she immediately showed strong interest in Shen Qianzhan, suggesting they meet if there was an opportunity.

At that moment, Ji Qingzhen had sensed something.

This kind of roundabout preparation to establish presence—wasn’t this exactly what he used to do in his younger years?

So that night, Old Master Ji used the excuse of elderly insomnia, had Meng Wanzhou warm a pot of osmanthus wine, and drank by the window with Ji Qinghe.

In his mind, Shen Qianzhan was a commercialized person—very clear about benefits and purposes. This was also why he hadn’t paid much attention when Shen Qianzhan’s concept proposal was hidden by Ji Lin.

But when that proposal was transferred to him through Ji Qinghe’s hands, he developed more interest in the “Time” project.

Once he set aside subjective prejudice, whether it was the proposal or the person who created the project plan, Old Master Ji looked upon both quite favorably. He played with his tea pet, his eyes reflecting warm yellow light under the room’s illumination: “Having heart is a good thing. This old man’s greatest expectation for you young people is to take care of your health and actively realize your life’s value. You and Qinghe don’t need pressure—just do your best.” Having said this, the old master’s thoughts wandered to another matter: “I heard from Wanzhou that he owes you a favor?”

On the night Ji Qingzhen and Meng Qiongzhi arrived in Beijing, that rascal Meng Wanzhou wore a face as if he’d suffered great injustice and complained to Meng Qiongzhi, claiming Ji Qinghe had driven him out of the courtyard and he had wandered penniless under bridge arches for nearly half a month.

Ji Qinghe and Meng Wanzhou grew up together, similar in age—one steady in temperament, the other lively and mischievous—they had caused plenty of conflicts. Every time they had cold wars or fights, Ms. Meng would step in to mediate.

She was well-practiced, first asking the complaining Meng Wanzhou what happened.

Meng Wanzhou hemmed and hawed: “I just invited a friend to a social gathering where there were quite a few outstanding young men… and my friend is quite popular. After he came, he kept a stern face, which embarrassed me.” The burly man’s face was written with pitifulness: “She and he are just in a working relationship, not boyfriend and girlfriend. Every time they meet it’s like fire and water, and now he’s managing her social circle…”

When Meng Qiongzhi inquired further and learned it was Shen Qianzhan, she first slapped Meng Wanzhou on the back of his neck and laughingly scolded: “Don’t you think you’re being stupid?”

Naturally, this matter had no follow-up.

Not only did no one seek justice for Meng Wanzhou after his complaint, he even got hit, so he’d been finding various ways to oppose Ji Qinghe these past few days.

“I have quite a collection of clocks, and lending some as props for you is no problem,” Old Master Ji poured the completely cooled tea on his tea pet, making the final decision: “When you have time later, come to Xi’an personally with Qinghe.”

Borrowing collected clocks as props… discussing this face-to-face made her seem rather thick-skinned.

She felt embarrassed, cleared her throat, and was about to say something when she looked up to see Old Master Ji standing with his hands behind his back, so she stood up too.

From the kitchen separated by one wall, the aroma was rich.

When Shen Qianzhan looked out, the lights outside the window were bright—night had fallen.

Once the room quieted, Meng Wanzhou’s boisterous voice from next door gradually became clear.

Old Master Ji’s expression was kind, smiling as he said: “Come on, let’s taste Qinghe’s grandmother’s cooking.” With his hands behind his back, he led Shen Qianzhan by two steps: “I heard from Qinghe that your family hosted him on New Year’s Eve?” Though phrased as a question, Old Master Ji’s tone was obviously certain.

“The housekeeper said after he returned, he couldn’t stop thinking about the papaya and snow fungus stew. Is your family from Guangzhou?”

“No.” Shen Qianzhan answered seriously: “Ancestral home is Jiangsu. My aunt married into Guangzhou and knows quite a bit of Cantonese cuisine.”

Old Master Ji nodded and asked again: “Only child?”

“Yes.”

Old Master Ji stroked his stubble: “Struggling alone in Beijing?”

“Yes.” Shen Qianzhan smiled: “But after working for a long time, my friends and work circle are all established in Beijing, so it’s not exactly fighting alone.”

Old Master Ji lifted the curtain and led her into the room.

The kitchen space was large. Unlike the large stove Shen Qianzhan had imagined, the appliances and interior decoration were extremely modern, like a carefully designed model home with a design aesthetic emphasizing minimalist luxury.

The woman busy at the stove looked over at the sound, her expression gentle: “You must be Qianzhan? This will be ready soon—we can eat in a moment.” After saying this, she complained to Ji Qingzhen: “Why are you bringing the young lady to the kitchen? The oil smoke is heavy—don’t let it affect her.”

Amid the sound of the range hood operating, Ji Qinghe, who had been leaning against the counter supervising Meng Wanzhou washing vegetables, turned to look. Through a sliding door, his gaze was undisguisedly surprised.

Soon, he picked up his cup and came out.

When their eyes met, Ji Qinghe naturally grasped her wrist and led her to the dining room: “Finished talking?”

Before Shen Qianzhan could answer, she noticed a four-panel screen in the dining room that was obviously from the same series as the one in Time Hall, perfectly separating the dining room from the sideboard.

Ji Qinghe handed her the coffee cup in his hand: “Help me hold this.”

Shen Qianzhan didn’t suspect anything and had just grasped the cup handle when Ji Qinghe led her around the screen and cornered her against the cabinet.

The cabinet’s height reached exactly to Shen Qianzhan’s waist—no retreat possible, no escape available.

After a brief moment of confusion, Shen Qianzhan raised her eyebrows slightly and assessed the distance between them: “You don’t need to be this close to talk, do you?”

Ji Qinghe leaned down, sniffing lightly: “Just confirming whether you’ve been corrupted by the old man’s pedantry.”

He was close, his long legs slightly bent as he leaned against her, turning his face to smell her hair and neck.

The main room had burning incense.

The old master liked sandalwood and agarwood. Having stayed there long, she had also picked up some woody fragrance—different from perfume’s aggressiveness, the absorbed incense was cool and light as smoke, undetectable without careful attention.

Ji Qinghe had always been sensitive to scents, especially the faint fragrance on her body, which differed from any other scent.

He found his current behavior, like that of an addict, amusing. Just as he was about to release her to get the wine opener, she raised her eyebrows, lifted her chin slightly to expose half of her slender neck: “I can’t be corrupted that easily. Why don’t you smell whether I’ve been corrupted by you instead?”

She moved closer, her calves brushing against him as she lifted her toes to touch his ankle.

Today she wore dark green high heels with fluffy pompoms adorning the tips—when they rubbed against him, they were incredibly teasing.

Behind the screen were busy shadows of people. Shen Qianzhan smiled, placing her hands around his neck: “I think I’ve been corrupted.”

She lowered her hand to place the coffee cup on the sideboard. Seeing his slightly squinted eyes with their calculating look, she struck first, pinching hard at Ji Qinghe’s firm, lean buttocks: “If you keep taking advantage, I won’t stop at just this.”

Shen Qianzhan tried to maintain an innocent and pure expression while revealing some irrepressible mischief. But unlike her imagined script where the bastard would be shocked and treat her like a dangerous flood, Ji Qinghe’s expression didn’t change at all. Instead, he looked at her with something between a smile and not, asking: “That’s it?”

Mocked, Shen Qianzhan’s brows twitched. She glanced downward with malicious intent: “Well then, should I grab the front instead?”