My cousin asked me to go to Wuha, and Hanikezi stuck to me.

Once filming was on track, the crew's pace stabilized.

We meet at 6:30 every morning and finish work before 7:00 in the evening.

Chen Yi set a strict rule for the entire crew: no filming beyond the allotted time, and the filming would be rescheduled for the next day.

"The actors' condition is more important than shooting an extra two takes. If you shoot something late at night, their eyes will look tired, and you can't fix that in post-production."

He had told the whole crew this on the first day of filming, and no one objected.

Teacher Zheng mentioned it casually to the assistant director in private.

"I've been acting for forty years, and this is the first time I've encountered a director who doesn't allow us to work overtime."

The assistant director smiled.

Director Chen said that an actor's eyes cannot lie.

"He's right. Not many young directors can understand this."

Days go by one by one.

In late June, Jiangxi was sweltering. There was no air conditioning in the old town, and the film set relied entirely on a few industrial fans to keep the heat out.

Chen Yi stood under the sun like everyone else, his work jacket draped over the back of the chair, his short-sleeved shirt soaked with sweat.

Early morning of the first week of July.

The film crew assembled at 6:30 as usual.

When Chen Yi arrived at the film set, it was still dark, and the eastern horizon was tinged with a grayish-blue hue.

He sat in a folding chair next to the monitor, scrolling through his phone and casually browsing news feeds.

My fingertip hovers over a headline.

That was an annual review feature produced by an entertainment media outlet.

The title reads "The Ordinary Faces That Changed the Landscape of Variety Shows," and the accompanying image is a screenshot from the first episode of "Five Ha" eleven years ago.

In the screenshot, Chen Yi stands in front of the camera, his body stiff, his mouth slightly open, just as he is about to stammer out a sentence.

He stared at the screenshot for a few seconds.

At twenty-three, I was wearing an ill-fitting white shirt, my hair was cut very short, my ears were sticking up, and I looked completely naive.

He returned to the main screen and glanced at the calendar.

July 3rd.

Eleven years ago today, he stepped into the recording studio of a variety show for the first time.

Chen Yi put away his phone and sat still in his chair.

The crew members on set were busy around him, some moving light stands, others laying tracks, and no one paid attention to what was happening on his side.

He swiped the screen again, opened WeChat, and found Chen Chichi's chat window.

The last message was a hot pot photo sent by Chen Hechi half a month ago, with the caption: "Going to our place again, the boss asked when you're coming."

Chen Yi typed two words and sent them.

Thanks.

Less than half a minute after the message was sent, Chen Chichi's reply popped up.

A hugging emoji, followed by six words.

"You're welcome, you deserve it."

Chen Yi looked at the chat box and his lips twitched.

He stopped typing, locked the screen, and put the phone back in his pocket.

Eleven years.

From a novice who was speechless in front of the camera to a director who now sits behind the monitor and only speaks four words a day.

In between are four movies, three seasons of a suspense drama, a Golden Melody Award, a Golden Rooster Award, a studio, a group of young directors, a secret relationship, a wedding, and a daughter.

Looking back on these past events, it's a very long road.

When you're on your way, you don't realize how far it is, but when you look back, you realize you've already crossed many mountains.

The morning's filming proceeded as planned.

The scene being filmed that day was the father's first step into the old town that was about to be demolished, standing at the entrance of the vacated carpentry workshop and looking inside.

The lead role in this scene was changed to a male actor playing the middle-aged father.

Thirty-eight years old, with a background in drama, very solid foundation.

Chen Yi watched three takes on the monitor, then got up and walked over to the actor.

"What are you looking for as you stand in the doorway?"

The actor pondered for a moment.

"I'm searching for memories from my childhood."

"Don't look for something superficial. Find something tangible."

"What are you looking for?"

"The second drawer from the right on the workbench. When you were little, you stole candy your dad hid in that drawer and got a good beating. When you stand at the door, that drawer is the first thing your eyes fall on."

The actor's expression changed slightly.

"This detail wasn't marked in the script."

"The script can't fill all the gaps. You have to flesh and blood into the character. This drawer belongs to you, not the script."

The actor nodded emphatically and stepped back to his original position outside the door.

The fourth step is to power on.

He stood at the workshop entrance, his gaze sweeping across the empty room and settling steadily on the second drawer on the right side of the workbench.

It paused for a full two seconds.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and he pursed his lips, suppressing his surging emotions.

Chen Yi sat behind the monitor and nodded in acknowledgment.

This one is approved.

We finished work at 3 PM.

In the sweltering heat of midsummer in Jiangxi, the ground steams with heat, and the air itself is filled with heat waves.

The crew members walked towards their accommodation in small groups, buying popsicles along the way to share.

Chen Yi did not travel with the others.

He turned into a side alley next to the main street.

Deep in the alley, there is an old barbershop that has been closed for the time being. The door is half-closed, and the words pasted on the glass have faded to a light pink.

He sat down on the stone steps in front of the shop.

The terrazzo steps had been exposed to the sun for most of the day, and the bottom was scorching hot.

He didn't move, but sat down with his work jacket underneath him.

The old street was exceptionally quiet.

The intermittent roar of machinery from the demolition area could be heard in the distance, while nearby, only the chirping of cicadas and the draft of wind could be heard.

The afterglow of the setting sun slanted in through the alley entrance, lengthening his shadow.

The shadows stretched along the stone steps, spreading out on the bluestone path, ending at the base of the opposite wall.

He sat there, observing his shadow on the ground.

At the age of twenty-three, my shadow was short and my body was thin.

It's not that she's short, it's that she lacks presence; standing in front of the camera, she looks like an apprentice who has wandered onto a film set.

The shadow of a thirty-four-year-old is very long.

It wasn't because the sun was setting; it was because the people sitting here were completely different from those eleven years ago.

He took out his phone.

Tap the front camera.

The person on the screen has more defined features than eleven years ago, with a sharper jawline and finer lines around their eyes.

The neckline of the short-sleeved shirt was slightly loosened from washing, revealing a clear black and white dividing line above the collarbone.

The background is an old street covered in dust.

Most of the paint on the door panel has peeled off, revealing the wood grain underneath.

Broken bricks were scattered in the corner, and a clump of wild grass sprouted from the cracks between the bricks, growing firmly.

He pressed the shutter.

The photo is finished, with a warm tone and a peaceful feel.

There was no smile on his face, nor did he appear tense.

His emotions were as calm as a still pond, with only the slightest ripples appearing when a breeze touched them.

He opened WeChat and switched to Hanikezi's chat interface.

Send the photos over.

Not a single word was included.

Half a minute later, Hanikezi replied with a voice message.

Chen Yi clicked on it, and her voice came through the speaker, her tone light and natural.

"The photo is quite good. The clump of weeds at the base of the wall in the background looks nice."

Chen Yi raised his phone and took another picture of the weeds growing in the cracks between the bricks.

I sent it.

Hanikezi replied quickly.

"This grass follows your temperament; the more sheltered and shaded the area, the more it will take root."

Chen Yi looked at the words and chuckled softly as he sat on the stone steps.

The laughter was muffled in my throat, dissipating into the twilight and the chirping of cicadas.

He closed his phone, leaned against the door frame, and watched the sunlight at the alley entrance gradually dim.

After a while, he turned the screen back on.

I didn't take any more photos; my fingertips were typing on the keyboard.

Send it to Hanikezi.

"Today marks my eleventh year in the industry."

There was a pause of a few seconds on the other end, followed by a reply.

"I remember. It's circled on the calendar every year."

Chen Yi's fingertips hovered over the keyboard, pausing for a moment.

He typed a sentence, checked it, and clicked send.

"Eleven years ago, you asked me if I would come back for the next episode, and I said yes. And I haven't stopped since."

Hanikezi replied with four words.

Keep going.

He put his phone away and, supporting himself on his knees, got up from the stone steps.

As dusk completely disappeared behind the rooftops, only a faint crimson glow remained on the horizon.

The shadows on the ground converged at their feet.

He brushed the dust off his trousers, slung his coat over his shoulder, and strode toward the alley entrance.

I had only taken two steps when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

He took it out and cut it open.

Hanikezi sent a new picture.

The picture shows a sticky note stuck on the double-door refrigerator in the house.

The note was written in her daughter's crooked handwriting.

"Dad, come home quickly! I've mastered the third set of dance steps Mom taught me."