There was fog that day.

The calendar read September 1st, 2019.

The production team of The Code waited for Wei Qingyue on the 15th floor of the hotel. He was dressed casually — casual trousers, a thin long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs turned up two folds, wearing sneakers with slightly dirty sides.

After getting out of the car, he took the elevator up. On the 15th floor, the corridor’s carpet and lighting were the same color — murky, with the feeling of dusk. Staff members, men and women, conversed in low voices in the hallway.

From the moment he stepped out of the car, a camera was trained on him — all the way down the corridor, filming as he walked. He said nothing, moving steadily forward. In the footage, the sound of footsteps was especially distinct. The host, Huang Yingshi, came out from inside the room, extending her hand first: “Mr. Wei, it’s a great pleasure — thank you so much for coming.”

Two glasses of clear water had been placed on the table, the tumblers transparent. Wei Qingyue sat down and smiled: “Call me something else — just Wei Qingyue is fine.” He pointed to the window outside: “The smog is very heavy today.”

Huang Yingshi followed his gaze out the window, opening in a casual, conversational tone: “The weather isn’t great, but you look far more vibrant than I expected from the internet — and more handsome, in a more immediate way.” She laughed as she said it: “Does it bother you that people focus too much on your appearance?”

Wei Qingyue sat back in the sofa, relaxed posture. His eyebrow lifted lightly, his natural shrewdness at ease: “It doesn’t bother me. I judge by appearances too.”

“Your company judges people by looks when hiring?” Huang Yingshi laughed. “It really is an era of appearances. So — would you mind if people define you as, say, an internet celebrity? The debate around you is this: you have a top academic background, you’re a foreign-educated returnee, a standard elite academic, a tech industry rising star — yet as an elite, you’ve also gone into being an internet celebrity, and doing the simplest kind of popular science at that. Though you don’t appear on-screen videos very often, you generate enormous traffic and are the subject of much discussion and fascination. How do you see these debates yourself? Do you feel that the term ‘internet celebrity’ lowers your standards?”

Wei Qingyue sipped some pure water, his tone even more relaxed than his posture: “The concept of ‘internet celebrity’ should in itself be a neutral term — a person who is popular on the internet. But perhaps for many reasons, when people mention it now, it tends to feel more negatively charged. For me, a word’s meaning is given to it by people — so it’s entirely possible that over time, something that seemed negative can become positive, don’t you think? As for what you call simple popular science — I disagree with that point. My reason for appearing on screen is partly that the company sometimes needs it for publicity, but also because I’m personally very interested in participating in this kind of science communication. There are friends who specifically assemble teams to make this kind of program — inspiring people to develop an interest in science is something of rare value. Perhaps the public has a misconception, which is that things that sound accessible are shallow.”

“But you can’t deny that this is often simply how things are — once you make something accessible, you face the difficult reality of being unable to go deep.” Huang Yingshi said.

Wei Qingyue replied: “Science is not like that. The public feels something is simple because they understood what I said. But they don’t know what kind of process lies behind making something easy for them to understand and making it feel simple. And in this field — if the well-educated people who command knowledge don’t step forward and claim it, who does the public want to occupy this space? Wellness gurus?”

The edge emerged — tucked into the teasing near-rhetorical remark at the end.

“Could there be an implication, then, of using high academic qualifications and expertise to attract traffic? Or to put it another way — have you considered that the high engagement your few episodes generated might in part be due to your appearance?”

Wei Qingyue lightly touched his fingertips to his brow, unhurried: “Those are two good questions. ‘Traffic’ — that word clearly carries a negative charge in the context of your question. I just explained: a word’s meaning is given to it by people. So I don’t think traffic is a problem — then it isn’t one. Everyone chases brevity, chases how to get the greatest sensory gratification within a minute. That gratification exists only briefly, pushing people to keep scrolling, to keep looking for the next one. Whether that’s right or wrong, good or bad, I won’t offer a judgment. My participation in any given video — the shortest is over ten minutes, the longest might be half an hour. It can still hold people’s attention. People are willing to watch, willing to learn something correct along the way. Perhaps, without their realizing it, it improves the scientific literacy of the viewer — and that is already its greatest significance.” He smiled, half-genuinely, half-jokingly: “As for appearance — I’m not at the point where I feel I’m in over my head, or need to be anxious that this traffic comes solely from my looks. That question might be more pointedly directed at someone from a different industry.”

This drew a knowing smile from Huang Yingshi. Wei Qingyue had just the right amount of humor. Her interview was different from the financial magazine profiles of Wei Qingyue — less formulaic, less polished — more of a collision.

“Your resume looks very impressive — one might say accomplished at a young age, without any notable failures so far. You were born in 1991 and will soon reach your thirties. What do you think distinguishes your generation?”

“How do you define failure?” Wei Qingyue countered. “By which standard do you measure it? I can’t represent my generation. I’m an individual — still quite insignificant. As for asking me to speak to the defining qualities of this generation — that might be a rather large question, as far as I’m concerned.”

Huang Yingshi said: “I understand what you mean. But the times always leave some trace on the individual. For instance, when I was in school, teachers loved discussing politics — and even now, a group of old men gathered downstairs probably still love to discuss it. But I don’t feel that same passion in people your age. My own contemporaries — men especially — still tend toward it.”

Wei Qingyue was adept at gracefully sidestepping topics he didn’t wish to explore further. Huang Yingshi sensed his stance and said: “Could this be understood as you being a person of contradictions?”

“How so?” He shifted his position.

“On one hand, you care about whether the people around you have developed an interest in science, what positive significance your actions can bring. On the other hand, you maintain a distance from others — no judgments, a kind of seemingly indifferent attitude. The business scope of your company objectively covers new energy, artificial intelligence, and autonomous driving — regardless of the subjective motivation, the objective impact is indeed to change this world, to make it better. Could it be that your profession is influencing your character?”

Wei Qingyue smiled: “Subjective motivation? Money. Will the world truly become better? I don’t know. But I don’t see those two aspects as contradictory — and even if they are, isn’t that normal? People are always in a state of contradiction.”

“Have you ever been in a deeply contradictory state yourself?” Huang Yingshi refilled his glass of water.

Wei Qingyue seemed to answer without needing to think and nodded: “Yes. When I went abroad to study, I had been looking forward to it desperately before leaving — I was very eager. Because my relationship with my father was very tense, and I’d wanted for a long time to escape that environment. But once I actually arrived in America, I felt a kind of exile, a sense of drifting. Those years of studying were actually quite tedious. I’m not fond of socializing, so I just buried myself in research. When I returned to China — and continuing until now — I feel instead a sense of being grounded.”

“A tense relationship with your father — could that be understood as your family of origin having caused you a certain degree of harm? Have you thought about how to heal from it?” Huang Yingshi looked at him with equanimity.

“Does it have to heal? Will it necessarily heal?” Wei Qingyue asked, smiling. “Things that can’t be healed — I’ve always believed — just leave them as they are. Not everything needs a resolution. I have no fixation on that.” He paused for a few seconds, as if adding a supplement: “Of course, it’s also possible that deep in my subconscious I do want it to heal — but I’m not consciously aware of it.”

“These words of yours remind me of a film — Manchester by the Sea — I don’t know if you’ve seen it. The film’s theme has a certain resonance with this attitude of yours. Now — in the popular science programs, and in today’s conversation, I find you consistently very composed and measured. Is that how you are at work too? Is that the side of you that everyone gets to know through the internet?”

Wei Qingyue picked up his water glass, fingertips tracing the surface of the clear glass: “There are moments of tension. But when I consciously feel the pressure, I think to myself — I should clear my mind and just concentrate sincerely on doing it well. The best state is to be like a tree.”

Huang Yingshi clearly hadn’t expected him to suddenly produce that kind of comparison. She laughed and asked: “Why is the best state to be like a tree?”

“In front of the library at my high school alma mater, there is a tree. I had never paid it any attention, until one day someone told me that at night, because of its dense foliage, it looked pitch-black — like a person standing there. And come winter, the leaves all fall off again. Later, I found it was true.” Wei Qingyue rested his chin in his hand with a light smile. He was thinking of a person — someone who, whenever thought of, always stirred a powerful feeling within him. “That tree — whether I pay attention to it or not, it grows when it should grow, withers when it should wither. It doesn’t put out new buds or shed its leaves because I’ve looked at it. I think it’s best for a person to act with that kind of state — to simply be as one should be. Whatever the environment — gentle breezes and fine rain, or violent wind and fierce storms — one has to accept it. But that doesn’t impede the growing and the fading in and of themselves.”

“There’s a flavor of Laozi and Zhuangzi in this,” Huang Yingshi had to admit. Wei Qingyue, though trained in science, had a remarkably strong capacity for articulating his views. She returned to something he’d said earlier: “You said you don’t know whether the world will truly become better — yet that seems to form another contradiction with your metaphor of the tree.”

“People are always in a state of contradiction — the conversation has come full circle, hasn’t it?” Wei Qingyue made a gesture. “You can understand it this way: intellectually, I have my doubts and my pessimism, but in action, I am very active. A pessimistic optimist.”

Huang Yingshi laughed and nodded.

Outside the window, the smog was still very heavy — heavy enough that the world was obscured. The city looked like a mirage, built upon a mirror of illusion. Wei Qingyue suddenly noticed a clock hanging in the interview room. The clock was motionless. Time, frozen still.

“Your clock seems to have stopped.” He pointed at the wall. Huang Yingshi turned to look and smiled: “You are a perceptive guest.”

“I make a habit of noticing details.” Wei Qingyue made a joke of it.

“I didn’t expect you to be so easy to talk with — the rigor of a science student, but also the sensibility of a humanities person.” Huang Yingshi said.

Wei Qingyue smiled: “How could I be on a program without being talkative? What reason would you have to invite me?”

From beginning to end, he was in a state of complete ease. Huang Yingshi looked at him and asked: “I’ve met some friends around your age — many of them are anxious. The anxiety isn’t simply about money or material things. By worldly standards, they’ve already achieved a certain level of success. Do you have your own anxieties? About the uncertainty of the future, for instance?”

“Anxiety is a topic that’s been discussed to death. I think we needn’t add more to it here, or generate more anxiety. Everyone has their own way of living.” Wei Qingyue, again, sidestepped a topic he didn’t want to discuss.

But Huang Yingshi pressed further: “In your experience — can everything be digested with such equanimity? Is there anything you can’t make peace with yourself about?”

At this, Wei Qingyue paused — just for a moment. He lifted his cup and drank quietly.

“Love, perhaps,” he said suddenly. Huang Yingshi was briefly taken aback; the camera remained trained on both of them. “Not being able to have love — that is something that very easily weighs on a person. At least for me, it is.”

“Are you sure you want to discuss this topic?” Huang Yingshi blinked and looked at him.

Wei Qingyue recognized her tactful, considerate manner, and let it pass as if he were only saying it in jest: “Just touching on it is enough.”

The interview lasted several dozen minutes. Wei Qingyue said a great deal. When it ended, there were a few more pleasantries — words like “you’ve worked hard” ringing out repeatedly. He was visibly tired — a kind of fatigue that rose up the moment things concluded.

In the corridor, still bathed in that dusk-like light, he walked out of the interview room. Huang Yingshi was giving instructions to a staff member nearby. She had a journalist’s background — had written columns, served as principal writer for a considerable stretch of time, had become a well-known magazine deputy editor, and had produced many widely-read articles. Interviewing Wei Qingyue today, there had honestly been many places where she hadn’t pressed to the real heart of things. Wei Qingyue was the kind of person who, when he wanted to talk about something, engaged with genuine seriousness; when he didn’t, he either gave no reply or steered the conversation elsewhere. The only highlight had been the word “love” — but Huang Yingshi had not seized on the privacy angle and pushed hard.

Wei Qingyue loved drinking plain water. Just before leaving, he went to the restroom. Coming out, he spotted a figure hurrying past. He followed that figure for a few steps.

This day was September 1st, 2019. The first day of school for new first-year high students was typically this date — but that was twelve years ago now. Back then, there was no such thing as messaging apps. Very few people knew what a smartphone was. No one shopped online, no one ordered food delivery — you could only take money and go buy things in person. There was no such word as “internet celebrity,” no such word as “traffic.” None of the unimaginable things that had since happened had happened yet. The world felt like a very old world.

This had been within his plans. Seeing that figure. Accepting The Code‘s invitation. Appearing on the program. Every word he had spoken — it had all been for her.

It was that simple.

His expression — the way he looked at twenty-eight — was the same as in his youth. Wei Qingyue thought: what have you been doing with yourself, Ghost Writer classmate? I expected it would be you coming to ask me about algorithms and values. Nothing came. But I’ll bet you’ll secretly watch my interview video.

Wei Qingyue felt none of the shock or grief he might have imagined. He only felt something very much like happiness — that on some day at twenty-eight, he had seen a person.