I, the screenwriter, have experienced a resurgence of inspiration.

There was a constant sound of birds chirping outside the window.

When Song Mo opened his eyes, there was no satisfaction or languor after a night's rest; only clarity remained.

She stretched, just like she used to when she was alive, and blinked slightly sluggishly.

The "Huang Laotai's Birthday Celebration" instance has been closed for three days.

She has been organizing new copy materials for the past few days.

Until late last night, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at the indifferent "person" in the mirror, and suddenly became a little dazed.

Because she could live without eating, she gave up eating.

Because she doesn't feel tired, she has given up on sleep.

Having been out of the sun for so long, her skin had an unnaturally pale white hue.

By the end of the Song Dynasty, Song realized that something was wrong with his situation.

If this continues, and she loses all her obsession with "resurrection," then what meaning will her self have?

Therefore, people became vigilant at the end of the Song Dynasty.

Her initial wish was to be resurrected, and writing scripts and drawing rewards were all for this purpose.

If, as she writes the script, she herself becomes a monster devoid of any emotions—even if she eventually accumulates enough screenwriter points, then what is resurrected will no longer be "the end of the Song Dynasty."

So she put down the script and slept all day.

Song Mo tried hard to recall the blissful feeling of sleeping in late in his past life, and then turning off the alarm clock to find that he could sleep for another five minutes. A smile unconsciously crept onto his lips.

The blanket was soft and fluffy, as if it were filled with sunshine, making you want to crawl inside and stay a little longer.

"Click, click."

A series of sounds, like the munching of crispy biscuits, came from under the bed.

Song Mo leaned over the bed and looked down.

Three round, mud gourd-like creatures emerged from the shadows under the bed.

It's a dull, earthy color, about the size of a fist, with a round belly, and it bounces around when it rolls.

Each gourd had a small, faded rag on top, like an ill-fitting headscarf.

They tiptoed to the corner of the wall, lowered their heads to the cracks in the wall where dust had accumulated, and nibbled at the dust in small bites.

The sounds heard at the end of the Song Dynasty were made by them.

It made a soft crunching sound, eating with exceptional focus.

Dust falls into the gourd's mouth and is sucked in completely, leaving not a trace.

"It feels like I'm raising a whole bunch of moving robot vacuums."

Song Mo reached out and poked it. One of the mud gourds obediently tilted its head back, but because it was a ball, it bounced back.

Perhaps it was because two fierce ghosts were always following him.

Not only in the entire rental apartment, but in the entire building, there wasn't a single live mosquito to be found.

Not to mention rats, cockroaches, snakes, and ants.

Just a few days ago, the residents in our community were discussing and praising the property management for their recent pest control efforts.

Some people joked that the building was unusually clean lately, so much so that they didn't even need cockroach bait, wondering if the feng shui had improved.

Of course, no one says this out loud. Old Liu downstairs died in a car accident a while ago. Anyone who says this would be asking for trouble.

At the end of the Song Dynasty, he was scrolling through his phone and just smiled.

……

……

"My lord, you're awake."

Ah Yan lowered her head from the ceiling, her pale, ghostly face covered by her long hair, making her look even more eerie.

"Are these silly things bothering you? You've been working so hard, you should rest for a few days."

—People with heart problems would probably need to stuff a nitroglycerin pill into their mouths if they saw this.

Good morning, Ayan.

Song Mo reached out and touched the top of the vengeful ghost's head, as if touching a block of ice:

"No, I've rested well. These mud gourds are very quiet and didn't bother me. Besides, with them around, I don't even need to clean the house."

"Would you like some snacks, sir?"

Ah Yan floated down from the ceiling, a hint of anticipation inexplicably appearing in her large, dark eyes:

"I've heard that there are foreign steamed buns sold in the city, and they taste delicious. Sir, shall we have our errand boy bring some of these over today?"

The two ghosts, Azhu and Ayan, were skilled in music, chess, calligraphy, painting, and reading people in their previous lives, but they couldn't cook.

In the past, servants would prepare the food and serve it to them. What to eat, how much to eat, and whether to avoid spicy food, eat less salt, or eat no meat were all predetermined.

So the two vengeful ghosts who came to the modern world quickly fell in love with takeout after spending some time with Song Mo.

Heavy oil, heavy salt, heavy spice—no matter how exotic the flavor, the two ghosts ate with great relish.

But since no one makes offerings to them, they can't access food from the mortal world, so the two ghosts have to burn candles and paper money every time they can eat.

"Foreign lands...steamed buns?"

After racking his brains for a long time, Song Mo finally realized that A-Yan wanted to eat a hamburger, and then nodded:

"I'm going out in a bit, I'll buy it and bring it back for you. Do you want some fries? And some fried chicken wings? Never mind, I'll just buy them all, we can't finish them anyway."

"Adults are so kind!"

Ah Yan cheered and hugged Song Mo's arm, tears of joy streaming down her face: "Then Ah Yan still wants that dark, sweet-tasting tea—is Master going out?"

She reacted quickly and floated a few times with Song Mo:

"If it's something as trivial as running errands, just call the servant. But for other matters, leave it to my brother and me. Why make the master make the trip himself?"

"Hmm... probably—"

At the end of the Song Dynasty, he went to the door to change into his outdoor shoes, pondered for a moment, and then replied, "I guess it's because I want to live more like a human being."

She's not eating now to fill her stomach.

She has a "thousand-mile hunger-free pill" and can survive for ten days or half a month without food.

But eating, sleeping, going out, sunbathing, and going to the market are just rituals—reminding her that she is still a person and living as a human being.

When getting dressed, Song Mo deliberately slowed down his breathing, imitating ordinary people, letting his chest and abdomen rise and fall gently with his breath.

Actually, she had stopped breathing a long time ago.

It doesn't matter how long you hold your breath; your chest won't rise or fall and you won't feel suffocated.

But when you're out and about, you have to act like a normal person.

She can't just walk down the street in broad daylight and have people stare at her chest, not moving at all, lest they be scared out of their wits.

After practicing in front of the mirror several times to ensure that his breathing rhythm was natural and there were no flaws, Song Mo nodded in satisfaction.

The woman in the mirror had shoulder-length black hair with slightly curled ends, her skin was a pale white that had never seen sunlight, and her lips were pale.

This is what the original owner looked like, and it's also what Song Mo looks like now.

The original owner was an obscure writer who stayed at home every day writing melodramatic romance novels. Nine out of ten of the manuscripts she submitted disappeared without a trace, but she still insisted on pursuing her dream.

He was so poor that he couldn't afford the rent, so he rented Wang Dazhi's cheap shared room.

When Song Mo took over this body, the original owner didn't have much money in his bank account.

My phone vibrated on the bedside table.

Ayan curiously leaned closer and discovered it was a bank notification that her money had been deposited.

[Your account ending in **** received a deposit of 120000.00 yuan at 09:12, leaving a balance of 123247.50 yuan.]

The number exactly matched the cash reward she received in the previous instance.

Immediately afterwards, the editor, whom I hadn't contacted in ages, popped up on WeChat, sending three messages in quick succession, her tone excited:

【Great news!!!】

[The script for that melodramatic romance short film you submitted last month! The client loved it!! They bought it right away!]

[It's exactly over 120,000 after tax! I just had the finance department transfer the money! Check your account. I told you you have a talent for writing melodramatic and angsty romances. Stop writing suspense all the time. Listen to me, focus on writing sweet and angsty romances, you'll definitely be a hit!]

……

……

Song Mo glanced at his phone, but his mood remained largely unchanged.

The scriptwriting system works flawlessly.

The rewards from the dungeon runs won't just fall from the sky; they will be transferred to her account through various legal means.

If she wanted, she could easily spend some screenwriting credits to write about herself winning the lottery and inheriting a substantial fortune, or perhaps receiving a windfall.

"Ah Yan, stay home and watch the house. I'll bring you a hamburger when you come back. If you're bored, play games by yourself, but if you lose, you're not allowed to curse anyone or travel through the internet cable to kill people."

A few words of advice from the end of the Song Dynasty:

"Staying at home all the time will make you stupid. I'll call A-Zhu and the mouse servant back later. We'll have hot pot tonight. More people... more ghosts will make it more lively."

Hot pot is steaming hot, full of the lively atmosphere.

She needs to soak up some of the warmth of everyday life to wash away the lingering smell of death on her.

Ah Yan obediently agreed and floated to the window to keep watch.

Song Mo took his keys and phone and went out. When he reached the third floor, he paused.

The door to Liu Laosan's house was wide open, and the house was noisy with a lot of people sitting inside.

……

……

"How could someone who was perfectly healthy just suddenly be gone?"

"I've always said drinking can be deadly. Look at him, he got drunk and ran into the street. I asked a lot of people, and they all said the driver wasn't responsible."

"Whose fault is this? The driver was driving properly and at a reasonable speed. The third brother went crazy and crawled under the wheels—"

"At least the insurance paid out some money. Fang, you have your own salary, plus this house, that's enough to support your daughter."

Seven or eight of Liu's relatives sat on the sofa, some smoking, some sighing, and a dozen or so cigarette butts were scattered on the floor.

Liu Laosan's wife, Cao Fang, sat on the sofa, dressed in hemp clothing, her hair disheveled, and her eyes swollen like walnuts.

The aunt next to her patted her back and advised:

"Please accept my condolences, sister-in-law. People can't come back to life. You have to take care of yourself, and Chanchan needs your help too."

"How could it just disappear like that..."

Cao Fang choked back tears: "I was perfectly fine when I went out, how could I have been hit by a car... How am I supposed to live like this..."

The pace didn't stop at the end of the Song Dynasty.

The little girl she had met last time was standing in the corner with her back to everyone, picking at the plaster on the wall with her fingers.

There was white ash stuck in her fingernails, and her hair hung down, covering most of her face.

As Song Mo passed by, she happened to look up briefly.

The girl, about sixteen or seventeen years old, had red eyes, as if she had just been crying.

But deep in his eyes, there was no trace of sadness, but rather a hint of relief, or even... exhilaration.

In just a moment, she lowered her head again, her shoulders trembling slightly, pretending to be sad.

Song Mo acted as if he hadn't seen it and walked straight past.

……

……

In the neighborhood, there are elderly people doing morning exercises, practicing Tai Chi, walking their dogs, carrying shopping baskets to the market, and even scolding their sons... The lively atmosphere is palpable.

At the end of the Song Dynasty, he followed the flow of people to the vegetable market.

The farmers' market is neither too far nor too close to the residential area, just a few streets away.

The morning market had just closed, and rotten vegetable leaves and water stains were still left on the ground.

The air was filled with the fishy smell of fish stalls, the bloody smell of meat stalls, and the mixed smells of various breakfast foods.

Song Mo couldn't resist and bought a batch of sesame seed cakes.

"Young lady, what kind of vegetables do you want to buy? The romaine lettuce just arrived, it's very fresh!"

"The beef rolls are on sale! They're whole cuts, perfect for hot pot at home!"

The stall owners enthusiastically called out their wares, their voices loud and clear.

Song Mo strolled around slowly, picking out a box of sliced ​​beef, two packs of meatballs, a bunch of romaine lettuce, a few potatoes, enoki mushrooms, and frozen tofu. Finally, he took a pack of beef tallow hot pot base.

The stall owner quickly packed it into a bag for her, smiling as he said, "Does the young lady live alone? Buying so much hot pot ingredients is good for you in this cold weather."

"Um,"

Song Mo paid, took the bag, smiled, and said, "I'm getting a little hungry."

It was an ordinary conversation, an ordinary moment.

But Song was very happy at the end of the Song Dynasty.

The heavy plastic bag was digging into my fingers, and there were people all around me.

The subtle sense of alienation between Song Mo and the world seemed to vanish in an instant.

She is alive.

Right here in this world.

……

Of course, before going home, Song Mo went to the hamburger shop again.