After breaking up with my boyfriend, I made a fortune and rose rapidly in my career.

Zhou Dingbang's lips moved again.

"Back then... Sujiang's high-tech industry foundation was weak, and the central government's funding was a drop in the bucket. That 10.9 billion yuan didn't go into anyone's own pocket. It was used to pave roads—to pave roads for industrial parks, to pave roads for attracting investment, and to pave roads for the economic take-off of the entire Sujiang area."

Chen Ping didn't move.

Zhou Dingbang's fingers tugged at the blanket, creating a crease.

"Your dad's report had accurate data. But he doesn't understand politics. A hole of 10.9 billion yuan has created a disaster, threatening to destroy Sujiang's nascent high-tech industrial chain. The livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of people and the fate of hundreds of companies all hinge on this chain. What am I supposed to do?"

His voice grew increasingly urgent, and the numbers on the monitor jumped twice.

"I admit, the way we handled it...was problematic. But the starting point was for Su Jiang's sake, for the greater good. If your father gives me a couple more days, we can sit down and talk, and find a compromise."

"A compromise?"

Chen Ping spoke. Three words, so light they seemed to slide across the white sheets of the hospital bed.

"The compromise you're talking about—is it getting an upright scholar to sign a self-defense statement? If he doesn't sign, your compromise just becomes a cup of potassium chloride?"

Zhou Dingbang withdrew his hand from the blanket.

Chen Ping pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit. It was made of kraft paper, a size smaller than A4, and the red wax seal at the closure was cracked.

"This is my father's manuscript."

The envelope was opened, revealing three yellowed pages of manuscript paper. The ink was blue, and the handwriting was neat and precise, stroke by stroke, exactly the same as the ones Chen Pingfang had seen in his study when he was a child.

"My mom kept it for twenty-five years. She sewed these pages into the lining of her pillow, moved four times, and changed three pillows. Each time, she took it apart and sewed it back in."

Chen Ping turned to the third page, to the last paragraph.

The handwriting at the bottom of the manuscript was a bit messier than the front, and the pen marks were of varying depths. The ink ran out once when I was writing the last half sentence, so I dipped the pen again and continued writing.

I'll read it to you.

Chen Ping held the manuscript paper up high enough for sunlight to penetrate, and spoke slowly and deliberately, word by word.

"...Economic development cannot be built on lies. Every penny of public finance comes from the hard-earned money of ordinary people. If we don't even have the courage to face our mistakes, then what we develop is nothing more than a castle in the air, which will collapse with the slightest breeze."

The air conditioner in the ward hummed. The tips of the leaves of the plum tree on the windowsill trembled slightly.

Chen Ping turned the manuscript over and read the last half of the sentence.

"What is the point of development if justice is absent?"

Seven characters.

When the pen reached the last stroke of the character "求" (qiu), the ink trailed out as a long, thin tail, slanting across the edge of the paper.

As I write this, my father has probably already heard the knocking.

Or perhaps they have already heard He Yongnian's footsteps.

Chen Ping put the manuscript back into the envelope, placed it on the bedside table, and tucked it under his reading glasses.

"Zhou Dingbang, you said the starting point was for Su Jiang. Then let me ask you—10.9 billion was used to pave roads, but where are the roads? Thirty-one companies received matching funds, nineteen of them have already been deregistered, and twelve have become zombie shell companies. Not a single one has produced a single chip, a single wafer, or a single piece of equipment."

Zhou Dingbang turned his head toward the window, refusing to look at him.

"You didn't pave a road. You paved a net." Chen Ping leaned forward half an inch, the chair leg scraping against the floor with a dull thud. "A net of interests. This net has supported He Yongnian, supported Lin Zhenghai, supported Deng Guohua, Ma Wenchang, supported everyone whose name was on the sign-in sheet. But it hasn't supported the common people of Sujiang."

The monitor's rhythm suddenly quickened. Short, sharp beeps started coming out in a series.

The nurse pushed open the door and poked half her head in.

Chen Ping raised his hand slightly, and the nurse withdrew it.

Zhou Dingbang's chest heaved, and his carotid artery throbbed at the collar of his blue and white striped hospital gown.

"Lay it flat..."

Don't call me by my name. You have no right to call me by my name.

These words hit the white wall of the ward, bounced back, and hit Zhou Dingbang's ears.

The 73-year-old man huddled in his hospital bed. The man who sat upright in the study at No. 17 Wutong Road twenty days ago now had his spine slumped down, his shoulder blades pressing against the pillow, and his whole body curled up in a ball.

Chen Ping took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the edge of the bed.

Confession.

The document was drafted by Cheng Yuan and follows the official format of the Provincial Commission for Discipline Inspection, with a signature field at the bottom.

"Sign this, and you can still fight for a decent outcome. Don't sign it~" Chen Ping stopped mid-sentence.

There's no need to finish the sentence. Zhou Dingbang has been navigating this system for forty years; he can fill in the rest himself.

The ward was quiet for almost a minute.

The ticking of the monitor filled every second.

Zhou Dingbang extended his right hand. His withered fingers took the pair of reading glasses from the bedside table and put them on. The two eyes behind the lenses were terribly cloudy as he scanned the confession twice.

"Pen."

Chen Ping pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket—a Hero 616 with a black barrel and silver clip. It was the same model his father had used for twenty years.

Zhou Dingbang took the pen.

My hand trembled three times as the pen tip touched the signature line. In the end, the three characters "Zhou Dingbang" lay crookedly on the white paper, with the last stroke dragging out a curved ink line.

The direction it goes is exactly opposite to the tail of the character "求" on his father's manuscript.

Chen Ping put away the confession, folded it, and placed it in his inner bag.

When he stood up, he moved the potted plum tree on the windowsill so that it faced the sun at the strongest angle.

"Orchids are afraid of shade and frost. But as long as the roots are not rotten, they can sprout again in the spring."

Without looking back, I pushed open the door, walked through the corridor, and entered the elevator.

three days later.

The Provincial Party Committee held a special press conference. The Deputy Secretary of the Provincial Commission for Discipline Inspection, representing the special investigation team, announced that the investigation into the major state-owned asset loss case of 2010 has been officially reopened. Former Provincial Party Secretary Zhou Dingbang, suspected of abuse of power and shielding criminals, has been transferred to judicial authorities for processing. On the same day, the nature of Comrade Chen Shuyuan's death was changed from "death due to overwork" to "death in the line of duty." The Provincial Party Committee posthumously awarded Comrade Chen Shuyuan the honorary title of "Outstanding Party Member of Jiangsu Province."

When the news broke in the provincial system, Chen Ping was not in his office.

He took half a day off.

Chengnan Cemetery. Section 17, third row, fourth burial mound from the left.

The gray granite tombstone bears the inscription "Tomb of Comrade Chen Shuyuan" on its front. Most of the gold paint on the tombstone has faded, and rainwater has etched vertical streaks into its surface.

Chen Ping squatted down and picked up the fallen leaves in front of the tombstone one by one.

Then he took something out of his bag.

That funeral guestbook.

A palm-sized sheet of white paper, its creases worn and frayed. Seventeen names, the first one emerging under the ultraviolet light—Zhou Dingbang.

Chen Ping took out a lighter and flicked it.

The flame licked the corner of the paper, and the orange-yellow light danced twice in front of the tombstone.

The sign-in book was made of poor-quality paper and burned very quickly. The flames engulfed seventeen names, the character "Zhou" covered in ink but illuminated by a UV light, and twenty-five years of silence and lies.

The last piece of ashes was swept up by the wind, drifted over the top of the tombstone, and scattered into the early spring air.

Chen Ping put the lighter back in his pocket and straightened up.

My left hand rests on the top of the tombstone, the granite warmed by the midday sun.

"dad."

My voice went hoarse for a moment.

"Everyone on the list has arrived."