I asked you to write a light novel, but you wrote about living?

The piercing question in the live stream hung at the top of the screen, weighing heavily on the young man sitting in the rusty wheelchair, along with the breaths of more than two million people.

Yu Wen did not rush to answer.

He understood the meaning behind that last sentence from the "cultural scholar" influencer.

The other party's roundabout way of saying that if you can't even explain why Fugui is still alive, it proves that you are not capable of writing "To Live," and that this book was not written by you at all.

Yu Wen almost burst out laughing in his heart.

These people actually got lucky and stumbled upon the right answer.

He did not write "To Live".

Fugui, Jiazhen, Youqing, Fengxia—these names have been read and read again by generations in another world, and the tissues soaked with tears could probably circle the earth several times over.

If that's the case, then Yu Wen really is just a porter.

These people thought they had found his Achilles' heel: if you can write about suffering, you must be able to explain suffering clearly; if you can't explain it clearly, then you've plagiarized.

They spent the whole night searching, and they were all quite pleased with themselves, as if they had solved some earth-shattering case.

But they asked the wrong question from the very beginning.

Good stories never need the author to step out and break them down to explain their "meaning".

If that's the case, what's the difference between this and that big question on a middle school Chinese exam?

"Based on the entire text, analyze the profound connotations of the character Fugui in no less than 800 words."

The meaning isn't in words.

It was on the old ox that Fugui was leading, in the clothes that Jiazhen sewed for him before she died, and in the morning when Youqing ran barefoot across the field ridge, his feet wet with dew.

That thing doesn't need proof; it just needs to be seen.

As for how to let people see it, Yu Wen already had the answer in his heart.

From the moment these people asked "the meaning of life," he thought of another person and another passage of text that carried more weight than any other truth.

He read that story many times.

He remembered that passage for many years.

He read it in his Chinese textbook when he was a junior high school student.

At that time, he was confused and only felt that this text was a bit boring, not nearly as exciting as the war story next door.

The teacher spoke from the podium, sentence by sentence, while he lay on the table, only half understanding.

Many, many years later, when he had become a corporate slave overwhelmed by mortgage payments, reports, and KPIs, he stumbled upon it again late one night after finishing overtime.

That time, he read it again from beginning to end, word by word.

After reading it, he sat in that dark rented room for a very long time.

He still can't explain what that feeling was like.

All I remember is that passage, like a hand gently lifting him out of that mud so that he could get up the next day and squeeze onto that damned morning rush hour subway.

He still can't explain what that feeling was like.

That passage was written by a mother.

A mother who silently swallowed all her tears and pain as she faced her paralyzed son who was constantly contemplating suicide.

At this moment, sitting in this moldy basement, trapped by three million in debt and his crippled legs, Yu Wen understood the mother and the suicidal son in that passage more deeply than ever before in his previous life.

Because he himself is sitting in this wheelchair.

Because in the shadows behind him, where the light couldn't reach, stood a timid little sister.

Yu Wen lowered his eyes and glanced at his hands, which were bulging with veins from years of typing on the keyboard, and his legs, which were too weak to walk.

Then, he raised his head again.

He didn't refute the statement "someone else," nor did he intend to argue about whether the author was worthy of the title.

None of that matters anymore.

What he needs to do is not to win a debate.

He wanted to extend that hand that had once lifted him out of the mud, through the eyes of those two million people, once again.

Hand it to the person hiding behind the screen who thought he had driven him to the brink.

It is also offered to everyone who is currently huddled in some dark corner of this folded city, repeatedly crushed by life, yet still gritting their teeth and unwilling to let go.

Yu Wen looked at the camera, at the two million eyes behind it, and slowly began to speak.

"The questions you all asked were very good."

His tone was much gentler:

"You want to know, now that Fugui has lost everything, what is the meaning of his life?"

Yu Wen paused, then said softly:

"However, I think we may have overcomplicated this issue. What actually saved Fugui's life was never hardship."

"I can't explain any profound principles to you."

He tilted his head, his gaze falling on the shadow beside him where the light didn't reach, and his tone suddenly softened:

Let me tell you a story.

"A story about me, about my sister, and even more about my mother."

In the live stream, the scrolling barrage of comments quietly slowed down.

When he said the word "younger sister," Yu Wen tilted his head slightly.

The camera followed his movements, panning across his side.

There, a thin, small girl wearing a mask was huddled in the shadows behind a wheelchair.

She must have heard her brother mention her, because she timidly raised her head, revealing half of her face. Her eyes, dark and bright, were above her mask, looking at her brother with a hint of unease.

Yu Wen didn't let her out. He just raised his hand and gently patted her head, as if to say, "It's okay, stay here and don't move."

The girl obediently lowered her head again and retreated to the place where the light couldn't reach, but her small hands quietly grabbed the armrests of her brother's wheelchair.

Only then did countless people realize that he wasn't the only one in that moldy basement.

[Is there a child behind them??]

[It's probably his sister, she's wearing a mask.]

Two kids live in this place...sigh.