Transmigrated Into the Stand-In of the Tragic Novel’s Heroine - Chapter 61

Little Moon’s energy seemed inexhaustible, running wild in the living room from morning till night.

The flowers placed in the vase didn’t stay secure for long before Little Moon knocked the vase and flowers down, sending them rolling around. Yet, the perpetrator of this floral crime put on an innocent expression of “it had nothing to do with me,” which left Xie Qingtang feeling both annoyed and amused.

She even had to thank it for acting before the flowers withered, saving her from seeing their inevitable decline.

The spring breeze drove away the bone-chilling cold, and Little Moon’s days of arrogant fun were put on hold the moment they headed to the pet hospital. Going against her usual behavior, Xie Qingtang handed the cat over to Chang Yishao, turned her head away, and pretended not to hear Little Moon’s terrified cries.

To be a healthy cat, this ordeal was eventually necessary. If it wanted to hold a grudge, it could hold it against the doctor and Chang Yishao.

Chang Yishao glanced at Xie Qingtang; how could she not understand her thoughts? “You just spoil it too much,” she complained in a low voice after Little Moon was carried away. Their relationship was already “settled,” but their daily life hadn’t changed much. She occasionally felt Xie Qingtang’s deep affection—but it was all directed at Little Moon, causing a slight pang of jealousy.

“You were the one who suggested keeping Little Moon; I’m just taking responsibility on your behalf.” Xie Qingtang was righteous. Who doesn’t love a fluffy little creature? She sized up Chang Yishao, her eyes twinkling, and leaned into her ear to tease, “Teacher Chang, why don’t you turn into something fluffy too?”

Chang Yishao: “…”

Little Moon was lethargic for two days after the spay/neuter surgery, but its vitality returned for the rest of the time, even attempting to bypass the Elizabethan collar. It didn’t distance itself from Chang Yishao, though; when Xie Qingtang couldn’t be bothered with it, it would wobble its body and rub its head against Chang Yishao’s fingertips incessantly.

The Qingming Festival holiday in April, combined with the weekend, wasn’t a short break.

Naturally, Chang Yishao and Xie Qingtang didn’t stay cooped up indoors. Lu Li, the “wealthy idle person,” traveled to Shen City to meet her friends, only to be given a cat, a cat carrier, cat food, and other feline necessities.

“Chang Yishao just has no conscience, and stop wailing,” Tang Rong said, completely unsurprised by the outcome, patiently comforting the soon-to-be-furious Lu Li.

“It’s not easy for them. Take care of the kitten for a few days and give them some time for themselves,” Tang Rong added. But Lu Li still gritted her teeth, finally adding with a hint of grievance, “Love over friends, she wasn’t like this before.”

Tang Rong’s hand trembled, and after a long moment, she sighed, “The past is the past. Don’t you forget your friends too when you find a single-player game you love?”

Chang Yishao didn’t care about their complaints.

The Qingming itinerary had been planned in advance—Elder Jiang had been informed, and the people on his side had agreed to let Xie Qingtang conduct a live interview. Although the museum covered many areas, there were countless folk crafts; how could they be completely encompassed? Xie Qingtang’s “spring outing plan” this time was to visit a riverside village in Shen City called Jiangmu Village.

The river was wide, stretching as far as the eye could see. Occasionally, gulls and egrets flapped their wings and took flight, and only sometimes could a few passing ferries or fishing boats be spotted.

“There are far fewer fishing boats here,” Xie Qingtang remarked, gazing at the great river meeting the sky, her voice tinged with emotion.

The old craftsman they were looking for was named Jiang Gao, the only surviving boatbuilder in Jiangmu Village. He had been building fishing boats since he was fourteen and had been at it for nearly sixty years. He had always kept to himself, even when he received national awards and titles, he disliked being interviewed. However, this time, after watching an episode of the program The Artisan’s Heart and under the persuasion of an old friend, he relented and agreed to an interview.

Jiangmu Village seemed frozen in time, completely unlike Jianggang and the tall buildings across the river. It resembled a composed old man, walking at his own unhurried pace. The village had a few dozen households. Although two- or three-story brick houses had been built, the low, old-fashioned houses with dark gray tiles and white walls still stood. However, besides the mottled moss and the signs of erosion left by the years on the walls, there were also many social civilization propaganda drawings.

A vendor pushing a cart and hawking malt sugar wandered through the village, interspersed with cries of “Pigeons for sale, chickens and ducks for sale”… People who had disappeared in the cities reappeared in the village, as if they had never been taken away by time.

Chang Yishao carried the equipment and followed behind Xie Qingtang. Following Elder Jiang’s directions, they found the village, but they weren’t sure which house belonged to the elderly Jiang Gao. An elderly woman was sitting under a small shed at the entrance of the village. She pushed up her glasses, pursed her lips, and continued to write on paper with a fountain pen. A sign hanging next to her read: “Letter Writing Service.” Chang Yishao was intrigued; she rarely entered villages and had only read about the “letter writing service” profession in books.

“What are you thinking, Teacher Chang?” Xie Qingtang noticed Chang Yishao stopping. She turned around with a smile, her eyes filled with warm, soft light. Chang Yishao lowered her gaze, thinking of their task. She shook her head, “Nothing, just wanted to ask for directions.”

“Ah, Jiang Gao, the one with boats and wood at the entrance, it’s over there.”

The villagers were very enthusiastic toward Chang Yishao and Xie Qingtang, the two young outsiders, and simply pointed the way for them.

Elder Jiang Gao’s house was not far from the village entrance. Countless stacks of wood were piled up at his doorway, and an old boat was laid across the front. It was no longer seaworthy and was used to store unused miscellaneous items.

Jiang Gao’s father and grandfather were boatbuilders, a skill passed down through the family. However, the tradition ended with Jiang Gao’s son, who was unwilling to learn the craft. In his helplessness, Jiang Gao had to find other apprentices. Over sixty years, he had many students, but only two truly stayed, and they now built river boats elsewhere—unfortunately, it could no longer be their main profession.

Jiang Gao’s son was an honest, middle-aged man, but when mentioning his stubborn father, he still expressed some dissatisfaction with the building of river boats. As society developed, the complete land road network and mechanical technology rendered wooden river boats obsolete. Fishermen no longer used poles to cast nets on the river; instead, they directly used explosives to catch fish with the sound of roaring cannons. Of course, this method is now also becoming rare. The lack of profitability caused many boatbuilders to change professions. Now, only Elder Jiang Gao remains committed in the entire village.

Xie Qingtang listened as Elder Jiang Gao recounted the past, the prosperity on the river slowly reappearing in his description.

The old man was too old now to spend long hours building boats. However, during the interview, Jiang Gao still went to his workshop and gave Xie Qingtang and the others a demonstration with boat nails, bamboo strips, and other materials. “A boat has a lifespan of over twenty years, but now it seems they are no longer needed,” the old man said with a smile, though a difficult-to-hide sense of loss was visible in his eyes.

Compared to folk crafts preserved in museums, this group was even more unfortunate, seemingly destined to slowly disappear with time.

The interview with Elder Jiang Gao lasted three hours, but Xie Qingtang and Chang Yishao did not leave; instead, they stayed in Jiangye Village. The people in this village once made a living from fishing, and the impression of the river boats must still linger in the memories of the elderly. Since she had come here to do an interview, she wanted to do a better job.

In the evening, Xie Qingtang disappeared for a while. Just as Chang Yishao was about to go out and look for her, she returned with a basket of wild vegetables—mostly given to her by enthusiastic villagers.

The simple inn in the village had a small kitchen, giving Chang Yishao a chance to show off her cooking skills.

“Carpenters, blacksmiths, weaving… and so many other forgotten places,” Xie Qingtang squinted, her tone full of profound emotion. She looked up at Chang Yishao and continued, “I thought I would stop at the National Folk Arts Museum, but now it seems that might not be the endpoint.”

“I think I can be a ‘minstrel,’ traveling all around to spread the word.” The disappearing crafts might not be preserved, but at least people could find out that they once existed.

“That’s wonderful,” Chang Yishao’s gaze lingered on Xie Qingtang’s face, infected by her enthusiasm. The idea that had lingered in her heart was brought to life again by Xie Qingtang’s appearance. She was no longer a dead, stagnant river but a mountain stream flowing out with the spring breeze.

“You just need to practice more, Teacher Chang,” Xie Qingtang examined Chang Yishao, resting her chin on one hand, her smile radiant. “You’ll have to carry the camera and the guitar later.”

They stayed in Jiangye Village for three days, two for the interview, and the last day was spent wandering the fields in search of spring, living up to the romance of the season.

As they were leaving, they passed the “Letter Writing Service” stall, and the old woman suddenly called out to Chang Yishao and handed her a letter.

Chang Yishao was a little confused. She tore open the envelope and shook out the floral note, which contained only four characters:  (Nǐ ránshāo wǒ / You ignite/burn me).

The old woman’s handwriting was strong and elegant, as if a fierce flame was burning on the paper. Just as Chang Yishao was about to ask for an explanation, the old woman simply smiled at her and went back to her work.

Chang Yishao suddenly understood. In the twilight of that day when Xie Qingtang disappeared, she had come to this place and asked the old woman to write a letter for her.

These four words came from a fragmented poem by Sappho.

They had met in a milk tea shop named “Sappho.”

“Why didn’t you—” Chang Yishao’s words weren’t finished, but Xie Qingtang understood her meaning.

She leaned back in the passenger seat, relaxed, with her hands folded in her lap.

“I heard a story that evening. The old woman started writing and reading letters for others when she was in her twenties. She said someone once sent her a letter, but because she wasn’t home and no one could read, the letter was carelessly set aside. By the time she saw the letter, the matter had become a lifelong regret. She didn’t want others to miss out too, and she left her blessing in her writing.”

“You—” Chang Yishao’s heart stirred.

Xie Qingtang smiled, her clear eyes sparkling with life.

Although a contract had been signed, she still desired a lasting relationship.

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