The world of film and television begins with Hikaru no Go

"Grandpa."

"Um?"

"Will future generations think we're doing the right thing when they look back on what we're doing now?"

A very faint crackling sound came from the charcoal brazier, and a spark splashed on the rim, illuminating the area briefly before going out again.

Di Renjie placed the scroll on his lap, remained silent for a while, then stood up, walked to the small desk, bent down, took a brush from the brush holder, dipped it in the inkstone, and gently scraped the tip of the brush along the edge of the inkstone.

Then, with his wrist suspended, he began to write next to Zhang Rui's line of text.

"Like drinking water, only the drinker knows whether it is hot or cold."

Eight more characters appeared on the paper, neatly arranged next to "Those who come after will view the present as we view the past."

The ink wasn't dry yet, and it shimmered with a moist sheen in the light of the gauze lamp.

Zhang Rui stared at the eight characters for a while, then picked up his pen again and started a new column on the left.

"Alas!"

A breeze picked up outside the window, making the window paper rustle.

Di Renjie put the pen back on the pen holder, but instead of sitting back in the chair, he stood beside the desk and looked down at the entire page of words written by Zhang Rui.

My gaze traveled down line by line, finally settling on "clear stream," "gentle breeze," and "universe."

"The framework is solid now, and these few parts are starting to look interesting."

Following his gaze, Zhang Rui saw that they were indeed the ones written most smoothly, with some gaps between the strokes, no longer crowded together.

"It's all thanks to Grandpa's good teaching."

Di Renjie didn't reply, but simply raised his hand and gave him a light pat on the shoulder.

My hand missed its target.

But neither of them paid any attention.

The light from the snow on the window paper was a shade dimmer than before, probably because it had snowed again.

-----------------

Zhang Rui practiced calligraphy every day without interruption, and after more than a month, his characters became more stable.

After another month or so, the strokes developed some strength and were no longer just imitations.

Di Renjie never praised him. One afternoon, he picked up a newly drafted reply from his desk, glanced at Zhang Rui, said nothing, and put the paper on the small desk.

Zhang Rui looked up and saw that Judge Di had already sat back down at his desk, flipping through a stack of files without even raising his head.

"Copy it exactly, omitting the third line and onwards."

Di Chun was squatting on the porch wiping a copper basin when he heard his master talking inside. He peeked out and saw that there was no one else in the study except for Di Gong, who was standing next to the small desk and talking to an empty chair.

Di Chun shook his head and continued wiping his basin.

That was the first one. After making many copies, Judge Di stopped looking at it often and put it on the corner of his desk, weighing it down with a paperweight, along with the official documents that were to be sent out the next day.

Only once, when Zhang Rui finished copying and handed it over, Di Renjie did not put it down immediately, but looked at it for a long time.

The few lines of writing under the lamp were well-structured, and the turns and transitions even showed some of the writer's own writing habits.

It wasn't a deliberate imitation, but rather something that seeped into me unconsciously through daily exposure.

Di Renjie raised his head and glanced at Zhang Rui.

Zhang Rui was focused on grinding ink and didn't notice.

Di Gong withdrew his gaze, placed the copied reply on the corner of the table, and weighed it down with a paperweight.

The copper paperweight was moved several times before it finally settled.

One night, after Judge Di finished judging an old case, he put down his pen and rubbed his temples.

"Now, you can write a few lines for me too."

He spoke casually, as if talking to himself.

Zhang Rui was tidying up the paper and pens on his desk when he paused.

"We can't let Grandpa write all the time."

Di Renjie didn't speak again, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a while.

The flames in the charcoal brazier burned steadily, and the watchman outside the window struck the second watch.

Days passed by like this.

In spring, the locust tree sprouted new buds. One day, Di Renjie walked along the corridor and saw a new locust branch drooping low by the window. He reached out and folded it down, then walked back to his study and placed it on his small desk.

Zhang Rui stood in front of the desk, looking down at it for a long time.

The locust branch sat on the table for three days, and then withered.

When I woke up on the morning of the fourth day, Zhizi was gone.

The small desk was empty, with only a small inkstick pressed against the corner of the paper.

The cicadas chirping under the eaves in the summer gave Di Renjie a headache. Di Chun secretly went to find Li Yuanfang and also pulled Di Jinghui, who was dozing under the corridor. The three of them moved a ladder and used a long pole to poke at the cicada shells under the eaves.

Judge Di sat by the window for a while, looking at the files, then looked up at the outside.

They were arguing in hushed tones about where to stick the pole, with Li Yuanfang holding the ladder with one hand and gesturing with the other.

In autumn, Di Chun brought out thick quilts to air them in the courtyard. Zhang Rui stood on the porch watching. Di Gong came out of the house, followed his gaze to the quilts, and said, "It's getting cold early this year."

Zhang Rui didn't respond. After a while, he seemed to come to his senses and turned his head to ask something.

The wind lifted a corner of the quilt, but the words did not reach Di Renjie's ears.

More than three hundred days and nights—it's neither a long nor a short time.

The inkstone on the small desk had been moved countless times, leaving a faint mark on the surface; yet, when Judge Di entered the study, he would sometimes pause at the doorway to check if the boy was still standing in front of the desk.

Until late that night.

It was late at night, but the light in the study of the Di family mansion was still on.

Judge Di sat behind his desk, an official document spread out in front of him, his pen scratching across the paper.

A breeze blew outside the window, causing the paper windowpane to flutter slightly before settling back down.

The distant sound of the night watchman's clapper could be faintly heard, but it was indistinct due to the several courtyard walls.

Zhang Rui stood up from his small desk, without tidying up his paper and pen as usual.

The small inkstone on the table was tilted to one side, but he didn't go to help it up.

He floated to Di Renjie's side and stood there for a while.

The old man was still writing, and the brush paused for a moment on the last stroke of the character "案" before lifting it.

Zhang Rui looked at the hand holding the pen; the knuckles were thin and hard, and there were thin calluses on the tiger's mouth from years of holding the pen, which gleamed dryly under the lamp.

He reached out and gently placed his hand on the back of Judge Di's hand.

"Grandpa."

"Um?"

"I'm leaving."

Judge Di put down his pen, slowly raised his head, and the candlelight reflected two small clusters of light in his eyes.

He looked at Zhang Rui and remained silent for a long time, so long that the wind outside the window stopped and started again, so long that the distant sound of the night watchman's clapper echoed from the end of the street and then disappeared into the depths of the night.

Will they come back?

"have no idea."

Di Renjie did not ask "where to go" or "why," but simply nodded slightly, then leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on Zhang Rui as if he were memorizing the child's appearance once more.

Zhang Rui lowered his head and suddenly remembered that late night in Pengze a year ago.

"Grandpa, you gave me the name 'Tongyou' back then, saying that 'Though the realms of the living and the dead are separated, as long as one's heart is open and clear, there is nothing to fear.' I have always remembered those words."

Di Gong didn't reply, he just looked at him.

The candlelight flickered, casting a shifting shadow on Di Renjie's face.

When those eyes opened again, there was no candlelight inside, only the boy who had followed him for over three hundred days and nights.

"Connecting to the secluded place".

"exist."

"You've had a great journey."

Zhang Rui remained silent for a long time, then lowered his head, solemnly clasped his hands together, bent over, and slowly bowed down.

"Zhang Rui will never forget his grandfather's kindness in raising and educating him."

Di Renjie's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he found himself unable to utter a word.

Those eloquent words spoken in court and those weighty phrases written in official documents suddenly seemed to have nowhere to go.

After a long time, he gently waved his hand.

"Go."

Zhang Rui straightened up and took one last look at the old man.

Then he took a step back, and his figure gradually faded away, like a wisp of smoke blown away by the night wind.

The light shone through, casting a very faint glow on the edges of his silhouette.

he's gone.

Judge Di sat in the chair, looking at the empty place for a long time.

The wind outside the window had completely stopped, and the candlelight on the table burned steadily without flickering.

After a long while, he reached out and picked up the brush from the inkstone. The ink on the tip of the brush was already half dry. He dipped it again in the inkstone, lowered his head, and continued writing the unfinished official document.

The moment the pen touched the paper, my hand paused involuntarily.

The last vertical stroke of the character "案" was drawn out a bit, a fraction longer than usual.

He didn't erase it; he just looked at it and continued writing.

Judge Di placed the last official document on the corner of the desk, weighed it down with a paperweight, and then stood up.

Walking to the small desk, there was a stack of Zhang Rui's calligraphy practice pieces next to it. The top piece was written tonight, still the "Preface to the Orchid Pavilion," but after writing the line "Moreover, life's span is subject to change, and it will eventually come to an end," there was nothing more.

The brush rested beside the inkstone, the ink at the tip already congealed into a small, hard black grain.

Judge Di picked up the paper and examined it under the lamp.

The strokes are straight and even, and the structure is becoming more and more like my own calligraphy.

He carefully folded the paper and placed it on top of the stack of paper for practicing calligraphy.

The stack of papers was neither turned over nor taken away.

The things on the small desk had always been there. Di Chun had wanted to tidy them up twice, but Di Gong stopped him both times.

Life went on as usual. Every day at dawn, Di Renjie would go into his study and not come out until late at night.

One stack of official documents after another was approved; the affairs of the imperial court seemed endless.

As usual, Di Chun came every day to add tea, adjust the lamps, and add charcoal.

Only Di Renjie himself knew that every morning when he opened the door, he would pause at the entrance.

Then he went inside, sat down behind his desk, and began his day.

Some time later, one afternoon, Judge Di was organizing the documents that had accumulated on his desk.

The copied letters and approved files were piled up together, and over time, the edges of the papers all turned yellow.

As the pages were turned, a few pages slipped out and floated onto the table.

Some time later, as Judge Di was organizing the documents that had accumulated on his desk, a few pages slipped out and floated onto the desk.

Upon picking it up, I realized it wasn't an official document.

The paper was densely covered with several lines of text, the ink was already quite old, the characters had taken on a basic structure, and a few of the more complex strokes were still a bit cramped.

Judge Di recognized the handwriting; it was written by Zhang Rui.

Judge Di sat down and laid the pages of paper flat on the table.

It's about a case, fragmented pieces, not a coherent narrative.

A headless corpse suddenly appears somewhere, a strange atmosphere deep within the palace, a few names, a few place names, a broken clue, the handwriting becomes more and more hurried as it goes on, as if the writer himself hadn't thought it through, but was just putting what was in his mind onto the paper.

A name appears in the last few lines.

Judge Di held that page of paper and looked at it under the lamp for a long time.

That's not an ordinary name; it shouldn't appear here, much less in Zhang Rui's writing.

A breeze picked up outside the window, making the window paper rustle.

The flames in the charcoal brazier flickered for a moment, then regained their footing.

He folded the paper, pulled open the drawer in the corner of the desk, and took out an old wooden box.

The box contained several extremely important private letters. I lifted the lid, placed these few pages on top, closed it again, and put it back in its original place.

Then he picked up his pen and moved on to the next document.