Spring Night of Misty Rain - Chapter 3

One of the most prominent features of bipolar disorder is hyperactive brain cells.

When Shen Zeyu is in a stable emotional phase, this hyperactivity acts as a creative advantage. But when she relapses, the disadvantage is equally glaring—it feels as though someone has forcibly stuffed her mind with a virus of negative information that simply won’t stop running.

It took her a long time to learn how to empty her head.

During her time in the hospital, she spent a vast amount of time simply staring into space. That state of pure blankness gradually stabilized her emotions and loosened her frayed nerves.

Take now, for instance. As she sat on the high-speed train, she drifted from a daze straight into a deep sleep.

It was an uneasy sleep. She dreamt she was back at the Biezhi Mansion, sitting in a study overflowing with books, reading a new script she had written line by line. As she read, she suddenly snapped, sweeping the mountain of books off the desk and screaming in a breakdown: “Total garbage! Absolute rubbish!”

“What kind of trash is this? Do you think you’re worthy? Are you worthy?!”

A gale surged through the half-open window, bringing a sudden downpour that drenched her. The sudden chill on her back jolted Shen Zeyu awake.

When she opened her eyes, the train was pulling into the station. She pinched her cheek, let out a yawn, and followed the crowd off the train with her hands shoved in her pockets.

The moment she stepped onto the platform, cold wind and misty rain slapped her face, flipping her hat back slightly to reveal her signature lamb-wool curls. The late-spring chill made her shiver. She pressed her flat-topped hat down and headed toward the exit.

Following the signs to the taxi queue, she hailed a car to Jinuo Avenue. As the car left the station, it was immediately enveloped in a fine drizzle.

Waiting at a red light, Shen Zeyu leaned back in the rear seat, her head tilted. Through the hazy mist, she looked out at the distant windows of ten thousand homes and the glowing red tail-lights of the cars ahead. The traffic lights, refracted through the raindrops on the glass, blurred into a shimmering sea of lanterns—reminiscent of the bustling ghost market from the animated film The Enchanted Mountain.

With that thought, her mind drifted unbidden to the spring nights of Nanjiang, and then to another pair of iconic Nanjiang eyes. Her heart ached.

This pain wasn’t a phantom physical sensation; it was an imprint seared into the depths of her soul. Even though Shen Zeyu had forgotten many things, this pain was like the damp cold of a southern winter—it seeped into the marrow. When it flared up, it felt hollow and itchy, freezing and biting.

Fortunately, Shen Zeyu had learned how to resist it. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, repeating the process until her heart finally calmed. Only then did she open the app she used for recording materials to log her encounter and emotional fluctuations, word by word.

It was past 1:00 AM by the time she got home. Shen Zeyu took a shower, dried her hair, and lay down.

Because of her two-year hospitalization, her once-long hair had been mostly cut away; it now barely reached her collarbone. Since she was a natural curly-head, lying on orange sheets in black pajamas after taking her medication, she looked strangely like a black goat—radiating an aura of misfortune.

The medication hadn’t kicked in yet. She rested her hands on her stomach and stared up at the painted angels on the ceiling, pondering her future.

She came from a family of ceramicists. Her grandmother, Yang Feixia, was a famous Qi-style porcelain carver whose works started at six figures. Not only that, but Madam Yang had disciples all over the country. The Qile Special School she founded had trained many disabled ceramicists; she was a woman of true virtue and reputation.

By all logic, Shen Zeyu should have inherited the family business. But she had refused that path, starting her own creative work at thirteen. First came school stage plays, then winning youth photography competitions, until step-by-step she broke into the film industry.

Shen Zeyu became famous at twenty. Now thirty, she had filmed three TV series, six movies, and written nearly twenty scripts. The driving force behind this high productivity was the vivid, kaleidoscopic inspiration provided by her bipolar disorder.

To this day, even after selling off many of her copyrights at a low price to pay off debts, she still held five completed scripts. Four were written before her illness. The first was Folding the Moon, a Republican-era story tailored specifically for Shang Qiuchi. The second was New Life, a story about someone repeatedly reliving their life and killing their past self to replace it. The remaining two were paranormal TV series.

The last one was a love story she had managed to finish while bored in the psychiatric hospital. She titled it Misty Rain on a Spring Night.

Aside from the last one, the first four were very “safe” for censorship. Since she would only be the credited writer and not involved in production—ceding 90% of the rights—she hoped to bypass the restrictions placed on her by Jintian Media. Everyone needs to eat, after all; Jintian’s blockade shouldn’t be that absolute.

Besides, being a producer was a massive headache. You had to worry about casting, mediate between the director and investors, and look after every detail of the crew’s life…

Ugh, just thinking about it was exhausting. How had she done it before?

Maybe she should just settle for the script fees. If she sold all four, she should get about 12 million.

But who would she sell them to?

Gu Ji was a good option; they used to be friends. But Gu Ji’s company couldn’t digest four projects at once. And one shouldn’t keep shearing the same sheep.

What about Xu Qingyue? Xu Qingyue was a typical businesswoman; given Shen Zeyu’s high-risk status, she likely wouldn’t collaborate.

Who else was left? The directors in the circle were all “creative souls”—if you gave them a script, you’d be lucky if they didn’t butcher it into five different versions. Expecting them to be obedient was a pipe dream; she’d be better off producing it herself.

As she was agonizing over this, the phone by her pillow dinged. It was a WeChat message.

Shen Zeyu’s thoughts paused. She waited, but when no second message followed, she was too lazy to reach for it. But a moment later, the phone began to vibrate incessantly.

Reluctantly, she reached out. The screen lit up: it was indeed Xu Luosu.

The young woman, who had been silent for two and a half hours since adding her, was now bombarding her: Senior, are you home? Waiting a few seconds without a reply, she continued: Senior, are you asleep? If you’re not asleep, can we talk?

I’ve always admired you. If you have any suitable projects, I want to collaborate with you.

The more “full” a person is on the inside, the more direct their behavior. Children raised in love express themselves with a straightforwardness that lacks any hidden agendas.

Looking at these four messages, Shen Zeyu didn’t feel surprised at all. She paused, then went straight to the point: Just showered. About to sleep.

Then she asked: How do you want to collaborate?

Xu Luosu replied instantly: The same way you used to work with Xinghai. You act as the producer and assemble the team; I provide the investment.

Shen Zeyu mused for a moment before slowly typing: I appreciate the offer, but in my current mental state, I cannot be a producer.

More importantly, with her current reputation, she couldn’t assemble a team of her former caliber.

Shen Zeyu watched the chat interface. After seeing “is typing…” appear and disappear several times, Xu Luosu sent a carefully worded message: I think we can discuss this further. But Senior, why don’t you send over the scripts you have first? We can talk specifics after I get back from the film city.

As expected of the third miss of the Xu family. She was young, but she worked with thunderous efficiency. This kind of proactivity was the mark of someone used to being the “Party A” in business deals.

Shen Zeyu never judged by appearances, and since she intended to sell the scripts anyway, she replied: Fine. Give me an email address.

Xu Luosu quickly sent it over, accompanied by a warm closing: Then I won’t disturb your rest. Goodnight, Senior.

Goodnight.

In the days after Shen Zeyu sent a portion of the scripts (excluding Misty Rain on a Spring Night) to Xu Luosu, she received no reply. She assumed the girl was too busy and quickly put the matter out of her mind.

It rained in Jinuo for a solid week. Everything was damp; the air tasted of water. Shen Zeyu’s bones felt as though they had been softened by the rain. She felt listless, lounging on her bed all day, unwilling to move a finger.

Wednesday was the day the children at the Qile Special School had their carving class. Chen Ci, serving as a volunteer teacher, had to take a group of kids to the kiln factory in the suburbs. Fearing Shen Zeyu would have a relapse if she stayed cooped up at home, Chen Ci dragged her out of bed early that morning and forced her into the car.

Shen Zeyu was deeply unwilling, scrambling back toward the bed. “It’s pouring outside! Everything is wet and dirty, I don’t want to go!”

But with her thin arms and legs, even though she was slightly taller than Chen Ci, she was no match for a woman who exercised regularly. Chen Ci hooked her arms under Shen Zeyu’s ribs and dragged her toward the stairs, her tone impatient. “The sun is coming out today! You’ve been hiding in here for a week; you’re going to grow mold and mushrooms. I don’t care—you’re going out today!”

“I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to!”

Shen Zeyu protested verbally, but her body betrayed her. She was physically dragged down to the first floor. Shen Zeyu was fuming. “Senior, you’re going too far! If I can’t be a mushroom, I’ll die!”

Chen Ci quickly covered her mouth. “Bite your tongue! Don’t say such things!”

During their struggle, a beautiful female voice drifted in from the foyer: “Senior Shen?”

Shen Zeyu and Chen Ci both turned toward the door. There stood Xu Luosu, wearing a French open-collar white shirt, a black sweater, and matching culottes. She wore a beret and stood at the entrance of Shen Zeyu’s home, clutching a suitcase.

Chen Ci glanced at the artistic young girl at the door, then turned back to Shen Zeyu’s messy “black goat” curls, looking utterly confused. Who is this girl? Why haven’t I seen her before?

Shen Zeyu also had no idea how Xu Luosu had managed to find her house. She slapped Chen Ci’s hand away, escaped her grasp, and stood up shakily. Tugging at her messy pajamas, she let out a light cough and gave a brief introduction: “Xu Luosu. President Xu’s sister from Giant Whale, Teacher Zhou’s disciple. She’s one of us.”

Then she turned to introduce Chen Ci: “Chen Ci, a senior from the Class of ’12.”

Hearing this, Xu Luosu bowed politely. “Hello, Senior Chen Ci. Nice to meet you. I am Xu Luosu.”