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“How could that be?” She struggled to respond, feeling like a primary school student tackling a college entrance exam question. “...Tradition always holds irreplaceable value—it’s not boring...”
When she mentioned the word “value,” he raised an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued again. But he didn’t immediately reply. His beautiful eyes continued to reflect the bright lights of the display case as he gazed at the jade seal with an almost otherworldly detachment.
“Do you know what professors in our department usually talk about in their first lecture to undergraduates?” he suddenly asked her, his tone casual, as if making small talk.
How could she possibly know? She could only shake her head silently.
“They talk about the value of literature,” he smiled faintly, still calm and composed. “Different professors explain it in slightly different ways, but the general themes are consistent—things like transcending life, grasping rationality, pursuing art, understanding values, ethical values, aesthetic values, social values… probably things like that.”
“Oh...” she murmured awkwardly.
“When I was a freshman, I just listened. Later, I started reflecting on why professors kept emphasizing such abstract concepts,” his expression carried the lingering weight of memory, tinged with a bit of nostalgia. “After a year or two, I realized it was because many classmates around me couldn’t feel the value of this discipline. A sense of meaninglessness can lead to emptiness.”
“Meaninglessness?” Yin Mengxi’s brows furrowed too. “Emptiness?”
“It’s also related to employment prospects,” he analyzed objectively. “After graduating from the Literature Department, there may seem to be many job opportunities, but compared to some popular majors like computer science or finance, the pay is much weaker—probably only a quarter of theirs, or even less.”
“Ah...” she remained silent.
“Its practical application is indeed limited, especially when it comes to interdisciplinary work,” he smiled again, his tone gentle and mild. “For example, in this project we’re working on now, the foundation is still built on Gao’s technical expertise, and the final product will ultimately have to be presented through technology. Without content, technology alone seems unable to exist independently.”
“A sense of meaninglessness... No wonder many undergraduates consider switching majors.”
This...
Yin Mengxi had been completely lost earlier, but now she finally understood what he was saying—the meaninglessness of literature... Did he really feel that way too?
“No...”
She instinctively wanted to refute this idea, even though she hadn’t fully thought it through yet.
“I think tradition itself exists outside of time—it doesn’t need to cater to so-called modern rhythms. It represents another perspective, another possibility.”
She worked hard to organize her thoughts, putting more effort into this than answering a comprehensive humanities exam.
“New things will keep emerging, but precisely because of that, revisiting tradition becomes important—perhaps like an anchor? People need to know where they come from, drawing strength and finding solace from the past.”
“Gao’s technical expertise is undoubtedly crucial, but without content, how can technology exist on its own? What will we submit in April next year? Surely we can’t just hand over a code backend...”
Apart from when she gave presentations in class, she had never spoken so much at once in front of him—she even used rhetorical questions, sounding unusually assertive and confident.
And then came her concluding remarks: “So don’t doubt yourself. Literature is beautiful and charming, literary research is impressive and remarkable, and tradition is independent and valuable—these are undeniable truths! And you love doing this, don’t you? Liking something is the most important thing—why care about the surrounding environment?”
Her earnestness was palpable, and by the end, she seemed almost flustered.
He appeared somewhat surprised, probably not expecting the little rabbit to express her views so strongly. Then he smiled—a familiar smile, both gentle and tinged with helplessness.
“I’m not doubting anything,” he sighed, his deep eyes still reflecting fragmented light and shadow. “I’m just saying that there’s a certain reality out there.”
Ah?
...Oh.
She felt awkward, inexplicably thinking her earlier rant had been a bit silly. She touched her nose, unsure of what to say next.
“But you’re right—I do enjoy doing this very much.”
Thankfully, he didn’t let the moment grow cold, continuing the conversation and sparing her much discomfort. Gentle people were always so considerate. Talking about his passion now carried an extra layer of warmth.
“Doing what you love never feels tiring. In fact, I’ve never experienced that sense of meaninglessness,” his voice was soft and low. “No matter how trivial or troublesome the work is, someone has to do it. Sometimes meaninglessness itself is a form of meaning. My luck lies in having more choices than most people, so I just do what needs to be done without overthinking it.”
His words were quiet yet powerful, making the entire space feel serene because of his presence. She felt her affection for this person growing deeper. For a fleeting moment, she saw not only closeness and peace in him but also a broader purity and nobility.
“So that’s why you’re doing this Challenge Cup project, right?” she suddenly seemed to understand. “You want to change the current situation?”
At this, his gaze returned to her, seeming even gentler.
“Mm, perhaps it’s about finding meaning within meaninglessness,” his smile was faint but captivating. “Being able to do this is something to be grateful for.”
“Grateful?” she was puzzled again.
“Do you remember when we talked about the script for Holding Fire ? That monologue by Mr. He,” he reminded her. “You said he was confused, skeptical of new culture, yet nostalgic for tradition.”
“In that era, simply expressing appreciation for tradition could be considered a mistake—or even a sin. Compared to that, things are much better now—we can say we like it, advocate for it, protect it, and let it continue to be passed down.”
“The regret today is merely that its development isn’t good enough—or that many people are forgetting it. But as long as there’s room for effort, the situation isn’t bad. I’ve always thought we’re a very fortunate generation.”
Here it came again.
That feeling of adoration for him was growing stronger.
Her heart was racing—not from the nervousness of unrequited love or the shyness of first love. If the intensity of love could be measured in levels, she was surely at the peak now. She wanted to pluck stars for him, to make all his wishes come true.
“That’s right...” her words became scarce again. “...Very fortunate.”
Was she merely agreeing with what he’d just said? Or was there some hidden implication meant only for herself?
He seemed to catch it, so he reached out and gently patted her head. The intimacy brought everything back down to earth, returning him to a more usual state. He took her hand and quietly walked around the seal gallery before leaning down to ask, “Shall we go upstairs to take a look?”
The second floor housed the calligraphy and painting gallery.
Compared to the seal gallery on the first floor, the collection here was much smaller but exquisitely curated, primarily focusing on works from the Ming and Qing dynasties, with a narrower historical span.
As they ascended, they happened to encounter a group of middle school students on a visit, likely part of a school-organized social practice activity. A volunteer wearing a microphone was explaining things to the children, who were gathered around an independent display case, listening attentively.
“What you see now is an authentic piece by Dong Qichang, a calligrapher from the Ming Dynasty...”
The volunteer dutifully introduced the work.
“He was born in 1555, with the courtesy name Xuanzai and the art name Sibai and Xiangguang Jushi. His theory of the Northern and Southern Schools had a significant impact on the development of Chinese painting. In terms of calligraphy, he laid the foundation for the Yunjian School, popularizing a style that was understated and elegant. During the Qing Dynasty, his calligraphy was especially admired, with emperors Kangxi and Qianlong both praising it.”
“This calligraphy piece is exceptionally well-preserved, with an inscription by Fang Qizheng, a prominent official from the Guangxu era, in the lower-left corner...”
The name “Dong Qichang” was quite famous, and even though Yin Mengxi didn’t know much about calligraphy and painting, she had heard of him. Intrigued, she pulled Xiao Zhi’s hand and joined the group to listen in. Standing behind a circle of already tall middle school students, she peeked over their shoulders and saw a beautifully understated calligraphy piece solemnly displayed in a transparent glass case in the center of the exhibition hall. Beside it stood a bronze plaque, accompanied by several old photographs with a distinct vintage feel.
“This piece comes from a social donation. The donor’s father was a patriotic general during the Republic of China era. According to the donor, this work was her father’s most cherished possession. He and the late Qing official Fang Qizheng were teacher and student, and it’s said that this piece was gifted by Fang Qizheng...”
The explanation was flat, delivered mechanically by the speaker, and most of the students wouldn’t remember it for long. With limited time, they soon followed the volunteer to visit other galleries. The area in front of the display case cleared, becoming quiet again. Yin Mengxi and Xiao Zhi stepped forward, finally able to examine it more closely.
Dong Xuanzai’s calligraphy was certainly worth admiring, but for some reason, Yin Mengxi’s attention was drawn to the old photographs displayed beside the bronze plaque. They were likely taken in the 1950s or 60s, their paper slightly yellowed with age. Yet the faces in the photos were still clear—a man and a woman, both in their thirties or forties. Though no longer youthful, their beauty was undeniable at first glance.
—They were truly stunning. Even simple clothing couldn’t conceal their exceptional qualities. It wasn’t just their unforgettable appearances but also an indescribable aura—upright yet tranquil, peaceful and elegant. They must have come from excellent families, received top-tier education, and grown up under the care of highly accomplished parents.
...How wonderful.
Though their faces were entirely unfamiliar, Yin Mengxi felt a strange sense of déjà vu. They lived in vastly different times and spaces, completely unaware of each other’s existence, let alone their pasts or futures.
Yet... there was still a kind of mystical resonance in her heart.
She said nothing, just quietly gazed for a while. When she looked up at Xiao Zhi, she noticed he seemed somewhat lost in thought too. Their eyes met, both momentarily stunned. Then, with an odd mutual understanding, they remained silent, pausing briefly before turning away from the display case. Just before leaving, they noticed a small line of text on the nearby plaque—
“Donors: Xu Jishi, Xu Jizhou.”
________________________________________
Author’s Note:
If there truly is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope his wish can come true once more.
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