Spring Night of Misty Rain - Chapter 23

Xu Luosu was a woman of passion. Upon receiving the script, she didn’t suggest waiting until they returned to the hotel; instead, she began reading it immediately.

Inside the dim car, Shen Zeyu sat with her knees pulled to her chest, leaning against the window. Her amber eyes, sharp and fixed like a black cat’s, watched Xu Luosu intently. Xu Luosu, however, was oblivious to the gaze, entirely consumed by the pages.

The script for Misty Rain on a Spring Night was exactly like its name: a story that unfolded during a hazy, misty spring night. Its physical setting was claustrophobically limited, taking place almost entirely at the location where the protagonists first meet—the Biezhi Mansion.

The story begins on the day of Jingzhe (the Awakening of Insects).

One of the protagonists, Yinzhu, has recently graduated and works for a publishing house. Six months into her career, she is assigned her most troublesome task yet: she is “loaned” to a film company to help a veteran screenwriter draft an initial manuscript.

On that day, she rides in her boss’s car toward Biezhi Mansion. The sky is a leaden gray. Dark clouds gather, thunder rumbles in the distance, and Yinzhu feels a prickle of nerves.

Her boss, sitting opposite her, grumbles incessantly. “She’s had a run of bad luck. I don’t know how it happened, but she’s in no state to write for a while. She’s seen your drafts and likes them, though. You two just need to power through these next few months. I’ve talked to your editor-in-chief about the pay, so don’t worry…”

The car speeds along the highway, finally arriving at the mansion just as lightning splits the sky like a purple dragon. Rain hammers against the glass, blurring the world into a vast gray expanse. The car pierces through the mist and stops before the dark silhouette of the mansion.

Yinzhu follows her boss, using a coat as a makeshift umbrella, as they run to the door. Her boss pounds on it. “Shen Chuan! Shen Chuan! Open up!”

After a long wait, the door creaks open. The heavy scent of alcohol mingles with a sluggish, languid voice: “Coming.”

Behind the door stands a woman with a deathly pale face. She scans the visitors, a forced smile playing on her lips. “Oh, did you get caught in the rain? Did you forget your umbrella on such a dark night?”

The boss pushes past her. “Move, move, I’m freezing…”

Shen Chuan steps aside, letting them into the interior. She fetches two dry towels. “Dry off first so you don’t catch a cold.”

Yinzhu thanks her, bowing her head to dry her hair. She misses the look Shen Chuan gives her.

Shen Chuan turns to the boss. “So this is the new colleague? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

The boss exhales sharply, looking at Yinzhu. “This is Yinzhu, the one I told you about.”

Yinzhu looks up and greets her politely. “Hello, Teacher Shen.”

Shen Chuan smiles, her alcohol-tinged pallor softening into something resembling warmth. “No need to call me ‘Teacher.’ We’re colleagues. Just call me Shen Chuan.”

Yinzhu remains silent. Shen Chuan’s gaze drifts to the rain streaming down the windowpane. She muses, “Yinzhu… ‘Silver Bamboo’ in the mist and rain. You have a very beautiful name.”

The Ambiguous Mist

It was a decent start, but once the boss left, the two were far from intimate. The deadline for the script revision was a tight three months. Shen Chuan, used to working alone, gave Yinzhu little room to help. She lived on alcohol and caffeine, flipping day and night to finish the script herself.

Inevitably, her body gave out. Within days, she was hospitalized for a stomach hemorrhage. The stay was kept quiet; only the boss and Yinzhu knew. During her recovery, to keep the project on track, she dictated the script to Yinzhu. With her background in publishing, Yinzhu’s prose was excellent, and she began to offer her own insights.

After being discharged, Shen Chuan began discussing the script with her in earnest. They moved from the work to theories of creation—from classical literature to modern narrative structures.

However, Shen Chuan noticed that Yinzhu habitually avoided the “painful” aspects of character development. As the saying goes, “Adversity makes for great art.” Without experiencing suffering, it is difficult to write a truly great piece. Since their script was “character-driven” rather than “plot-driven,” they needed to dig into the darker side of human nature.

Shen Chuan wasn’t one for lecturing, so she only mentioned it in passing: “All creation eventually leans toward philosophical inquiry. Perhaps you should read Hesse’s Siddhartha; it’s the pinnacle of storytelling.”

Yinzhu simply agreed. She was a gentle person, absorbing everything Shen Chuan taught her like the sea. This gentleness extended to their life. Because of Shen Chuan’s illness, Yinzhu began to manage her daily routine—a “slow-boil” approach that saw Yinzhu’s presence seep into every corner of Shen Chuan’s life.

Under her care, Shen Chuan’s collapsed life began to find its tracks. No one could hate someone so kind. Even Shen Chuan began to feel a stir of affection.

The relationship became ambiguous, but then… Yinzhu’s “ex-girlfriend” appeared. Actually, “ex” wasn’t quite right—it was a girlfriend she was caught in an endless cycle of breaking up and reconciling with.

Shen Zeyu didn’t describe this girlfriend in detail. Instead, she used a montage of “phone calls in the corner,” “a car appearing before the mansion,” and “two people arguing by the car” observed by Shen Chuan from behind a window.

Xu Luosu sighed as she finished reading. “I feel like Shen Chuan’s personality is more like Director Qin’s than yours.”

Shen Zeyu smiled, a faint, ghostly expression. “Showing your true self from the first meeting makes social interactions very difficult, doesn’t it?” Her real personality was sharp and not particularly likable. She often mimicked Qin Zhiyue’s style to protect herself and others.

Xu Luosu disagreed. “Really? I think showing the real you from the start avoids a lot of trouble. If you use a fake mask to win someone’s favor, there will be a massive rift when you can’t maintain it anymore. That’s how you end up hurting people.”

Shen Zeyu felt like Xu Luosu was subtly criticizing Lin Pei. She whispered, “I think it’s natural to want people to like you. Using any means to achieve that isn’t strange… if you ask me, the real reason people get hurt is that they let their ‘favor’ turn into ‘expectations.'”

Xu Luosu sighed helplessly. “Senior Sister, being too responsible isn’t a good thing. Sometimes, we need to drop the baggage and kick it back to the person it belongs to.”

She wanted to argue that it’s human to have expectations when you like someone. Is it wrong to have hope? Desires and expectations are what keep people alive.

She felt a surge of frustration on Shen Zeyu’s behalf, her teeth itching with a mix of anger and pity. She put the phone down and let out a long, weary “Sigh…”

“I give up on you…”

Suddenly, Xu Luosu reached out, grabbed Shen Zeyu’s head, and began to ruffle her hair frantically. “Argh! Argh! Argh!”

“Junior Sister! Stop! I’m getting dizzy!” Shen Zeyu protested, her head spinning as she tried to catch Xu Luosu’s hands. But as a “weakling,” she was no match for the vigorous young boss.

Just as she felt she was about to faint from the shaking, she was pulled into a warm, soft embrace. Shen Zeyu’s mind went blank as her chin sank into Xu Luosu’s shoulder.

Wait… this is…

She lay rigid in Xu Luosu’s arms. Xu Luosu reached up, pinched both of Shen Zeyu’s ears, and said through gritted teeth, “Senior Sister, remember this for next time: Don’t be moved by that kind of ‘universal’ gentleness that’s given to everyone.”

“Next time your heart flutters, let it be for a love that is unwavering and steadfast!”

Shen Zeyu froze. It took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in. She pushed Xu Luosu back slightly and looked up at her, caught between tears and laughter. “Boss Xu, you really are quite overbearing!”

Xu Luosu let out a soft laugh, still holding her ears. “Well, my goal in life is to be a CEO, after all.