Chapter 82: An Unexpected Encounter

Song Yi thought for a moment, then ran off to call her brother again, but Chen Xin paid it no mind. She had little interest in being on television. It was just a shame that the internet hadn’t yet become a household staple; most people still relied on dial-up. In another two years, she’d be able to start her own online video channel, no longer needing to compete with television stations for an audience.

For now, with so much material at hand, she considered starting a blog. The theme would be local specialty dishes and the stories behind them.

But where to begin? Perhaps Old Qian’s search for his son would make an excellent entry point.

At present, blog users were still few in number, but those who blogged were undoubtedly at the forefront of the times. So if Chen Xin was going to do it, she intended to do it with refinement.

She had already chosen the location for filming: the second floor of the café. When arranging the space earlier, she’d set aside a glass-enclosed corner on the terrace—a tiny sunroom, tastefully decorated with a touch of cosmopolitan flair.

“Are you serious? You think this hefty pork knuckle will look good in this setting?” Song Yi had never seen anyone do what Chen Xin was doing. He read blogs, too, but most were critical essays or emotional outpourings. The blend of local cuisine and Western chic Chen Xin was crafting was entirely new to him.

Chen Xin carefully arranged the raw ingredients, took photographs, then meticulously edited and laid them out. She posted photos of the finished dish too, omitting the preparation steps—after all, nothing looks particularly appetizing while it’s being stir-fried, except perhaps for Western cold dishes.

The introduction to the dish was just over two hundred words, accompanied by a photo of the thousand-year-old yellowhorn tree in the ancient town, as well as nostalgic images of bridges and trickling streams winding past old houses. Next, a shot of a weathered wooden door stood in stark contrast to the pristine interior, immediately capturing the reader’s eye.

These techniques, commonplace in later years, carried a unique novelty in this era—it was as if the creator of the dish was inviting you on a journey to seek out a legend.

Chen Xin was used to this; she could effortlessly weave a story. In her telling, this dish carried Old Qian’s unwavering love for his late wife across decades, and his enduring longing for his son.

At the end of the piece, Chen Xin wrote: When I saw Old Qian stroke his wife’s portrait and tightly clutch the tiny photograph his son had left behind, I wanted to ask only one thing—do you wish to fill the rest of your days with regret?

Song Yi was a sentimental man. After reading Chen Xin’s blog post, he said it was like a cup of bitter coffee coated in chocolate—the sweetness melts away to reveal a bitterness that brings tears to your eyes.

“Ah, I can’t take it. How are you so good at tugging the heartstrings? And that boy surnamed Qian, he’d better hope I don’t run into him, or I’ll give him a piece of my mind. What grudge could make him abandon his father for over thirty years? Is he planning to spend the next thirty years in regret? No, no, I need to cook something to calm down.”

With that, Song Yi, a burly man, pushed away from the computer and headed downstairs, seeking solace in chopping and washing ingredients, comforted by the rituals of cooking.

Cheng Jie was at work when she received the blog post Chen Xin sent her. Normally composed, she found herself unsettled this time. She glanced from the materials Chen Xin had given her to the blog post, then, in a swift motion, tore up most of her half-written report, crumpling it up and tossing it in the wastebasket.

“You all, come here and take a look at this article. Tell me what you think.” Cheng Jie called over her editorial team, wanting them to experience Chen Xin’s emotional punch as well.

To Chen Xin, her article was nothing remarkable by later standards. To suit contemporary tastes, she’d even held back on the sentimentality. A few years on, she could have gone full melodrama with it.

Cheng Jie had her colleagues read Chen Xin’s blog, then stepped aside to call Lü Yimeng.

“Lü, are your leaders really not interested in producing this program?” She’d felt indifferent before, but now Chen Xin had filled her with confidence. “If your station won’t do it, I could try pitching it to the city station.”

The city station was still cable, unable—and unwilling—to compete with the provincial station. But that didn’t mean they had no ambitions; they too were searching for ways to innovate. Cheng Jie’s workplace had connections with several city station producers—if she vouched for the project, success was possible.

“Hold on—if you take it to the city station, I don’t see much of a future for it. In a few days, our station will have a general meeting. I’ll try to speak with the deputy director and see if we can get it on the agenda for a vote.”

Previously, she’d only given a brief overview to leadership. To bring it before a meeting, she’d need to prepare a demo, considering every angle.

After work, Zhou Hao hesitated, then called Yi Bai, inviting him out for a drink.

“Drink? I’ve been working overtime—could be called in any minute. Fine, I’ll keep you company, you drink, I’ll watch.” Yi Bai, phone wedged between ear and shoulder, was cycling and planning to mooch dinner at his mother’s. When Zhou Hao called, he changed course, cutting through the alley beside the cathedral to take a shortcut to the military quarters.

As he turned the corner, he accidentally collided with someone. The other person staggered, clutching a lamp post in pain.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it? I just bumped into you a bit.”

Bai Mengqing had just finished rehab and was already feeling unwell; the collision with Yi Bai made her break out in a cold sweat. Hearing his question, she couldn’t respond for several moments.

“Hey, miss, are you feeling alright? Should I take you to the hospital?” Yi Bai realized Bai Mengqing wasn’t faking; fine beads of sweat covered her forehead, and her complexion was ghostly pale. Forget the drink—he urged Zhou Hao to bring the car around quickly so they could get her to the hospital.

Zhou Hao was startled when he heard, and immediately drove out of the alley, arriving five minutes later.

By then, Yi Bai had already helped Bai Mengqing to a stone post by the roadside, while a middle-aged woman nearby dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief.

“The car’s here, sorry about this, miss.” Without hesitation, Yi Bai scooped up Bai Mengqing and settled her in the car; seeing it was a military vehicle, bystanders hurried to help.

Yi Bai had already locked his bicycle under a tree by the cathedral. Now he hopped in and pressed Zhou Hao to drive.

Zhou Hao hadn’t recognized Bai Mengqing at first. Once in the car, he took a closer look and ventured a guess.

“Bai Mengqing? Are you Bai Mengqing?”

Her head was spinning now, vision blurry. She could only make out the epaulets on Zhou Hao’s shoulder—a soldier. She nodded faintly in response.