A perfect score on the college entrance exam? The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng has astonis

Chen Mo glanced at her.

"How would I know if I had inspiration?"

Su Wanci paused for a moment, then smiled.

As she smiled, her eyes welled up with tears again.

She sniffed, looked up, and gazed at the Leifeng Pagoda in the distance.

The tower gleamed golden in the sunlight, like an ancient dream.

Within half an hour of Chen Mo's live stream, the poem spread throughout the entire internet.

It wasn't spread slowly, it spread explosively.

On Douyin, clips of Chen Mo reciting lyrics have been edited into various versions.

Some were accompanied by guzheng, some by piano, and some by instrumental music.

The most-viewed version has only one sigh as background music.

That was Su Wanci's voice after Chen Mo finished reading the last sentence.

The sound was recorded, as clear as a pin dropping on the ground.

On Weibo, the phrase "Ten years have passed, and we are separated by life and death" appears.

Without any prior notice, marketing, or trending topic promotion.

He climbed to the top of the trending searches.

It's either "Chen Mo's New Lyrics" or these seven characters.

Because everyone knows where those seven words come from.

Who wrote it, and for whom?

The number of views exceeded 100 million within half an hour.

On Zhihu, someone asked: How would you evaluate Chen Mo's new poetry?

Answers came immediately, but the most eye-catching was the response from a professor in the Chinese Department of Peking University, an expert in Tang and Song literature.

His answer consisted of only one paragraph.

But it received 500,000 likes.

"I've studied words my whole life, and only today do I finally understand what words are!"

In the group of professors from the Chinese Department of Peking University.

The news hasn't stopped since the afternoon.

When the expert posted the poem in the group chat, he added the comment: "Everyone, take a look at this."

The group was quiet for ten minutes.

Then a professor in his seventies sent a message.

"I've finished watching it, and I'm speechless. It's not because it's bad, but because it's too good—so good that I'm speechless."

Chen Pingyuan, chairman of the Writers Association, saw this poem at home.

He was having dinner when a notification popped up on his phone. He glanced at it, then put down his chopsticks and read the entire poem three times.

He stood up, went to his study, turned on his computer, and sent a message to the association's secretary-general.

"Tomorrow morning, please contact Chen Mo for me. I want to ask him to join the China Writers Association."

The secretary-general replied immediately: "Chairman Chen, he's not old enough to join yet; the Writers' Association has regulations—"

Chen Pingyuan interrupted him:

"Rules are rigid, but people are flexible. He wrote 'Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng,' 'Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River,' and 'Exhortation to Learning' when he was eighteen, and he wrote this today. Don't even mention eighteen; an eighty-year-old who can write just one of these pieces would be eligible to join the association. He wrote four pieces, and you're telling me his age?"

The Secretary-General did not reply further.

He knew that once Chen Pingyuan made a decision, no one could change it.

The next morning, Chen Mo's phone rang.

He was having breakfast in the hotel restaurant, with a bowl of porridge, a plate of pickled vegetables, a boiled egg, and a fried dough stick in front of him.

Su Wanci sat opposite him, peeling an egg.

Chen Mo glanced at the caller ID—a Hangzhou number, which he didn't recognize.

He answered the call.

"Hello, are you Chen Mo?"

"I am."

"Hello, I am a staff member of the China Writers Association. Our chairman, Mr. Chen Pingyuan, saw your poem 'Jiang Cheng Zi' last night and greatly admired it."

"We would like to invite you to join the China Writers Association. Normally, you would need to submit an application form and representative works, but Chairman Chen said that your works do not need to be reviewed. If you are willing, we can process your membership application at any time."

Chen Mo chewed on the fried dough stick and remained silent for a second.

"I'll think about it."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

He probably didn't expect that someone would say "I'll think about it" when it came to joining the China Writers Association.

But he quickly regained his professional tone.

"Okay, no problem. Contact us anytime once you've made up your mind. Chairman Chen asked me to tell you that the doors of the China Writers Association are always open for you."

Chen Mo hung up the phone, put it on the table, and continued drinking his porridge.

Su Wanci looked up at him.

Who is it?

"The Writers' Association wants me to join."

Su Wanci paused for a moment while peeling the egg.

"China Writers Association?"

"Um."

"You agreed?"

I said I'd think about it.

Su Wanci stared at him for several seconds.

Then she lowered her head and continued peeling the eggs.

She placed the peeled egg on Chen Mo's plate, then picked up another one and continued peeling.

Why don't you ask me why I didn't agree?

Chen Mo said.

Su Wanci lowered her head and focused intently on peeling the egg.

"There's no need to ask. If you don't agree, you must have your reasons. I won't ask what you don't want to say."

Chen Mo looked at her.

She peeled the egg very seriously, concentrating on peeling each strand of shell off the egg white, as if she were doing something very important.

Sunlight streamed in through the restaurant window, falling on her profile. Her long eyelashes curled slightly, like butterfly wings.

He suddenly remembered the poem he had written last night.

Even if we met again, we would not recognize each other, for our faces are covered in dust and our temples are like frost.

He thought, what if one day he really gets old, his hair turns white, and his face is full of wrinkles?

Will she still peel an egg and put it on his plate like she does now?

Will she still peel an egg and put it on his plate like she does now?

He thought so.

It wasn't because he was sure, but because of the time she was by his side.

He never had "what ifs" in his mind.

"Chen Mo."

"Um."

"Were you thinking of me when you wrote that poem?"

Chen Mo looked at her without saying a word.

Su Wanci's ears slowly turned red under his gaze, the color spreading from her ears to her cheeks, and from her cheeks to her neck.

She lowered her head and continued peeling the egg, her hands trembling slightly.

Chen Mo remained silent.

He picked up the egg she had already peeled from the plate and took a bite.

The yolk was golden yellow and shone in the sunlight.

"It's too salty," he said.

Su Wanci looked up and glared at him.

"Eggs can't be salty!"

I said egg yolk.

"Egg yolks are naturally salty."

"I might have misremembered."

Su Wanci looked at him, her cheeks puffed out.

She clapped for three seconds, then laughed.

She smiled and put the peeled egg in her hand into her plate, broke it in half, put one half in her mouth, and handed the other half to him.

"Do you want some or not?"

Chen Mo took it and ate it.

The yolk was still salty.

Su Wanci swallowed the last bite of egg, took a sip of soy milk, and stared out the window.

The restaurant's windows face a corner of West Lake.

Several boats can be seen drifting slowly on the lake, with boatmen punting with long poles, the tips of the poles breaking the water's surface, creating ripples that spread out in circles.

She looked at it for a few seconds, then suddenly turned back.

"Chen Mo, do you think Bai Suzhen is really trapped under West Lake?"

Chen Mo finished the last spoonful of porridge in the bowl and put down the spoon.

"Go dig around under Leifeng Pagoda and tell me if you find anything."