The Night is Called Gentle - Chapter 53

As the two stepped out of the study, dark clouds had already shrouded all the windows, and the sky was ominously overcast.

“Professor Yan, it looks like heavy rain is coming. Let’s not go out to eat,” Lin Zhixia said, quickly walking to the balcony and locking the window with a click.

Yan Huaiqing followed behind her, gazing up at the lead-gray sky. “It would be too inconsiderate to ask the housekeeper to cook in this weather.”

“Ordering takeout doesn’t seem very humane either,” Lin Zhixia added, following her train of thought.

Yan Huaiqing thought for a moment, then looked at her. “It wouldn’t be appropriate to have the patient cook either.”

Lin Zhixia blinked, suddenly realizing that the responsibility of cooking would inevitably fall on her shoulders.

It wasn’t that she was unwilling she was just afraid she wouldn’t do it well. Hesitantly, she turned back and asked, “Then, Professor Yan, what would you like to eat?”

Before she could finish her sentence, her phone buzzed with a call from Editor in Chief Sun.

Lin Zhixia held up her phone to signal, “I’ll take this call first.”

“Mm,” Yan Huaiqing replied with an understanding smile, naturally turning and walking toward the living room to give her privacy.

“Good afternoon, Editor in Chief Sun. Is there something you need?” Lin Zhixia leaned one hand against the windowpane, waiting for the other person to speak.

“Xiao Lin,” Editor in Chief Sun’s voice on the other end was hesitant and grave. “Is now a good time to talk?”

“It’s fine, Editor in Chief Sun. Please feel free to speak directly,” Lin Zhixia said, instinctively glancing back at Yan Huaiqing’s silhouette and silently praying that nothing bad had happened.

“Then I’ll get straight to the point,” Editor in Chief Sun paused briefly. “The review results for Listening to Silence are not very optimistic. Moreover, last week, the publishing house received a newly issued document, one clause of which pertains to period-themed works. The review standards have been significantly tightened compared to before, especially for the 1960s to 1970s.”

“Does it require a full revision, or is it banned from publication?” Lin Zhixia asked bluntly.

No one dared to challenge policy, and she had already anticipated the outcome.

Editor in Chief Sun sighed. “We’ve studied and discussed the document repeatedly. The only solution we see is to completely remove the plotlines from that period and replace them with vague, fragmented references interspersed in the characters’ narratives and memories.”

“Editor in Chief Sun, you know that making such revisions is almost like rewriting an entirely new book.”

Rain poured down outside, with bean sized raindrops clattering noisily against the windows.

Lin Zhixia pressed her fingertip against one of the droplets on the glass, trying to keep it from falling, but it was futile through the pane.

“I’m well aware, and I understand how you feel. Believe it or not, the publishing house actually hopes for the book’s smooth publication even more than you authors do.”

A sigh came from the other end of the line, made even more helpless by the crackling static.

“But you know the current environment. It’s not just one author or one publishing house facing this predicament everyone is in a difficult position.”

“I understand, Editor-in-Chief Sun. I know it’s hard for you all.”

Staring at the layers of rain outside the window, Lin Zhixia felt a knot in her chest, her voice muffled. “If it were any other story, I might let it go. But for this one, I want it published in its truest form. I don’t mind waiting for the policies to loosen.”

Editor Sun fell silent for a moment, her tone growing more earnest. “Xiao Lin, I don’t mean to discourage you. It’s precisely because we’re familiar that I feel I must speak honestly. Based on my decades of experience in this industry, policies will only grow stricter in the coming years, perhaps even longer. Instead of passively waiting for the environment to improve, it’s better to actively adapt to the changes. Young people like you have flexible minds you don’t cling to conventions and can always find better ways to express things, right?”

She wasn’t lecturing; on the contrary, her words were heartfelt, and Lin Zhixia could genuinely sense the sincerity and goodwill behind them.

“I understand. Thank you for the advice, Editor Sun.”

She let out the pent-up frustration in her chest, though her voice still sounded strained. “Could you please send me the revision plan from the publishing house? I’ll consider it. If there’s a better way to present it, I can try rewriting.”

“Xiao Lin,” Editor Sun’s voice carried a mix of approval and somber relief. “We’ve collaborated on three books now, and you’ve always shown maturity and rationality. I won’t waste words praising you I’ll do everything I can to support you. I can’t share the document directly, but I’ll summarize the relevant content for you. Li Meng is already drafting the revision plan, and I’ll send it to you along with the summary.”

“Thank you, Editor Sun.”

Lin Zhixia lowered her head, watching a raindrop slide slowly down the glass before disappearing into the window frame.

“Don’t mention it,” Editor Sun replied solemnly, offering encouragement. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. There’s nothing wrong with your work, and there’s nothing wrong with you. Face this positively don’t lose heart.”

“Okay, I understand. Thank you.” Lin Zhixia lifted her head, trying to sound more lighthearted.

After hanging up, she stood quietly by the window for a while, her silhouette appearing somewhat adrift against the chaotic curtain of rain.

Yan Huaiqing, who had been looking at her phone on the sofa, glanced up at her but, not wanting to intrude, averted her gaze again.

Lin Zhixia took a deep breath and turned toward the living room.

“Yan Laoshi,” she called out, her voice tinged with grievance.

Yan Huaiqing looked up to see her approaching like a little kitten mewing softly.

“I’m here,” she responded gently.

“Did you hear everything?” Lin Zhixia wilted as she settled onto the carpet beside her, head bowed like a white camellia drooping under the rain.

“I heard. Professional struggles sometimes they’re beyond our control.” Yan Huaiqing set her phone aside and handed her a cushion to lean against.

“It’s so hard,” Lin Zhixia sighed, slowly shifting to rest her head against Yan Huaiqing’s leg, her hair spilling over the back of her hand.

Yan Huaiqing curled her fingers, her thumb gently rubbing the knuckle of her ring finger as her gaze settled on Lin Zhixia’s furrowed brow. “So, what exactly is the content that’s under such strict scrutiny?”

“The protagonist’s youth, set around the 1970s,” Lin Zhixia sniffled, offering a bitter smile. “If we remove that part, it’s like pulling out her backbone the character would never stand firm again.”

Yan Huaiqing was silent for a moment before reaching out to lightly hook a strand of Lin Zhixia’s hair that had fallen near her hand. “Feeling resentful?”

Lin Zhixia nodded, leaning against her weakly as she mumbled, “Yes, resentful.”

“I heard you say you’d rewrite it?” Yan Huaiqing’s voice was soft, careful not to add to her burden.

“Most likely.”

Lin Zhixia pressed her forehead against Yan Huaiqing’s knee, her words coming out in muffled sobs. “Nearly a third of the plot needs to be cut or revised. The only way is to break these scenes apart and weave them subtly into the story, presenting them in a more implicit way.”

Having seen her hold her head high, stubbornly and resolutely defending her work, Yan Huaiqing couldn’t bear to see her so lost and helpless now. She lowered her lashes in thought, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“Xia Xia, what emotions were you feeling when you wrote this story?”

Lin Zhixia nuzzled her forehead, burying her face against Yan Huaiqing’s leg as she pondered. “Cherishment, or perhaps reverence.”

“Teacher Yan, this isn’t just a story. It’s a piece of history, something that truly happened. I’m merely telling someone else’s story.”

Yan Huaiqing’s fingers trailed through her hair, stroking her head as if petting a cat. “Sometimes, things are like quicksand the more you struggle, the deeper you sink. If it really needs extensive revisions, why not set it aside for a while? Step back and examine yourself, and the story, from a different angle. You might find a better perspective.”

“Teacher Yan, what would you do if you were me?” Lin Zhixia lifted her hand to rest on Yan Huaiqing’s knee, wrapping her arms around her.

Yan Huaiqing’s gaze fell on the pulse throbbing at Lin Zhixia’s wrist, as if she could see the emotions flowing within. “If I were you, I’d write another story one where the Earth explodes and humanity perishes, ending everything once and for all.”

Lin Zhixia laughed, peeking out with one eye. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Yan Huaiqing gently freed the trapped strands of her hair, then rested her hand behind Lin Zhixia’s ear, lightly pinching her earlobe.

Lin Zhixia relaxed, enjoying the touch, and slowly closed her eyes.

“Since you’re telling someone else’s story, why not tell it in a different way? Tell it only to those who can understand her. Like the paper stars we folded as children only someone with a sincere heart would unfold it layer by layer to discover the secret message hidden inside.”

“Hmm?”

After speaking softly, Yan Huaiqing let out a questioning hum, her fingers pressing a little harder on the earlobe.

Lin Zhixia squirmed from the ticklish sensation, then gave a sweet smile, revealing a few small white teeth. “Teacher Yan is right.”

“Xia Xia.”

“Yes?”

Yan Huaiqing placed her hand on Lin Zhixia’s neck, feeling her pulse, and suddenly asked in an exaggerated tone, “Where’s the stubbornness and freedom in your blood? I can’t feel it anymore.”

Lin Zhixia squirmed even more, covering her neck in a daze. “Is it gone?”

Just as she was about to search for it, she looked up and was amused by Yan Huaiqing’s somewhat adorable expression. She pouted and explained, “Sitting for too long weakens your energy. Maybe my qi and blood are deficient, so it’s not flowing strongly enough.”

“What should we do then?” Yan Huaiqing raised an eyebrow, looking at her with an exaggerated expression.

Lin Zhixia’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she blurted out, “Director Lin always says that if your qi and blood are deficient, just sleep while hugging someone you like, and you’ll be fine.”

Yan Huaiqing was slightly startled by her words, her eyes flickering as she swallowed. “Do you have someone you like?”

“If not, then there’s no cure.”

The sentence lacked a subject, making it ambiguous. Lin Zhixia blinked at her twice, as if she truly didn’t.

Yan Huaiqing’s fingertips trembled slightly, but she maintained a calm expression as she looked at her.

Outside the window, the rain grew heavier, stretching the silence even longer.

Seeing Yan Huaiqing so reserved, Lin Zhixia whined softly, wrapping her arms around Yan Huaiqing’s legs and pretending to be pitiful. “I’m so miserable already. Won’t Teacher Yan give me a hug?”

Amid the continuous sound of rain, a single drop seemed to fall right onto someone’s heart, making a soft plop.

“Lin Xiaoman.”

Yan Huaiqing’s throat tightened slightly as she looked down at the person clinging to her leg. “Are you being coquettish and acting shameless?”

Lin Zhixia froze abruptly, tilting her face upward. Though her eyes still held a trace of grievance, the corners of her lips curled into a sly arc. “If you see through it, no need to point it out. Teacher Yan, must you be so merciless?”

Pressing her lips together, Yan Huaiqing roughly ruffled the head resting against her leg twice before glancing toward the kitchen. “Diet therapy should work too. I’ll make you some sweet soup add some mountain ginseng and goji berries to replenish your qi and blood.”

Lin Zhixia straightened up, pouting helplessly. “Then Teacher Yan’s secret recipe for sweet soup is at risk. Your arm is injured I should be the one to cook.”

“Not for outsiders. Step back.” Yan Huaiqing stood and walked toward the kitchen.

“Teacher Yan, take me as your closed-door disciple,” Lin Zhixia said, rising as well and following close behind.

“What, Teacher Lin planning to switch careers and learn opera?” Yan Huaiqing reached somewhat stiffly with her left hand to search for ingredients in the cupboard.

“If it’s not for outsiders, it can be for insiders. I just won’t be an outsider, then.” Lin Zhixia reached out to help her retrieve the ingredients, moving in perfect sync, like an extension of her own hand.

“Besides, I’ve heard that a closed-door disciple is more important than one’s life. Do you have one, Teacher Yan?”

“Life is the most important, so I don’t take any.”