I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Casalis, an clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, called Richard first to make an appointment this time.

It's completely different from last time. Last time it was just a white envelope with an official seal, specifying the time and room number to arrive at.

This time, he also politely asked Richard over the phone which day would be convenient for him.

When the others arrived, they waited for him in the hallway outside the classroom, holding their hats in their hands.

Upon seeing Richard, he extended his hand, much more enthusiastically than the last time.

"Mr. Williams, I was presumptuous last time."

Richard, of course, didn't mind: "It's just business as usual, I understand."

"Your file as a cooperating scholar has been given a new cover last week."

What does adding a cover mean?

"The gist of it is that in the future, access to your file will require a higher-level signature for approval."

Casalis himself felt that these words carried great weight when he said them.

"In addition, we have just established a new office."

"It's called the Wartime Abnormal Affairs Coordination Office; the sign was just put up last Wednesday."

He then took out a purchase order from his briefcase.

"We'd like to purchase a batch of your booklet."

"It's that 'Collection of Strange Tales'."

Richard frowned, unsure of what the other party meant, and asked first.

Which volume specifically?

"The special edition of 'Day of Mourning'."

"How many do you want?"

5000 copies.

If they're only purchasing a couple hundred copies, they might just take a look at them internally.

5000 copies is a rather large number.

Casalis explained.

"We need to distribute these to all the police officers in the capital, so that each of them can carry a copy with them at all times."

Richard instructed him to contact the printing factory directly for the specific purchase order.

He doesn't handle these things himself; he's only responsible for collecting the money at the end.

The Duckworth printing plant in Manchester had never dealt with the government before. The owner was so shocked when he received the check from the Treasury that he made a special trip to the bank.

When he came back, he told everyone he met that it was the first time in his life he had ever seen such a beautiful piece of paper.

Mr. Dawn, as usual, did not accept payment; he only wrote one line in his letter:

"Richard, you can now deal with the government."

These 5000 copies of paper are nothing to me, I'll just give them to you.

Charlotte's telegram arrived that same evening.

"The editor-in-chief now says that *Northern Literature Review* is the home you came from."

She even complained about it herself.

Just two months ago, Mingming said that the "Strange Tales Collection" you published could not be published in this magazine.

It was the first week of March.

In elementary school playgrounds everywhere, girls would start singing a new song while jumping rope.

"She didn't answer the first time, she didn't answer the second time, and she went to knock on another door the third time."

"They won't accept wet food, they won't accept cold food, and they won't accept food brought indoors."

Several new spiritual medium shops have sprung up in the west of the city, with signs that specifically state, "Specializing in treating post-return-home syndrome."

It is said that the fee is 5 shillings per visit, and that they can politely see "guests who have already been invited into the house" out again.

Richard had also heard about it.

The so-called ritual involved splashing a basin of water on the threshold and then having the owner shout "Go away!" three times at the empty house.

When he spoke to Mrs. McNeil about it, she remained noncommittal.

"Splashing water, that's not entirely wrong."

"It really works?" Richard asked, somewhat surprised.

"It's not very useful, but it's not harmful either."

This business is simply about putting people at ease.

Moreover, the church is currently too busy, so this kind of comforting work has fallen into the hands of these swindlers.

"What does Lady Mary think?"

"The teacher took down the notice about closing the door last week."

But now she only accepts one type of order: dropping off customers. She refuses all other orders and calls people back.

"What's the price?"

Mrs. McNeil smiled again.

"No charge whatsoever."

Richard held his coffee, saying nothing.

Mrs. McNeill saw through his thoughts.

"Don't overthink it. The teacher didn't suddenly become kind for no reason. She's setting rules now."

"She, the most skilled medium in the capital, drove down the price of escorting guests to 0, so those unlicensed mediums who charged 5 shillings could no longer make a living."

If they can't make it, they'll simply switch to something else.

"As for the actual business of calling back souls..."

"A teacher cannot accept any students who are under his control; anyone who does must leave the school."

"But whether those people outside can handle it depends on their own abilities."

After the two finished talking, Richard came out of the coffee shop, and a light drizzle started to fall again.

He walked along the alley to the main street, where there were quite a few people.

People seem to have moved on from the atmosphere of the day of mourning.

An old woman selling flowers squatted against the wall, her basket full of white chrysanthemums.

She clearly marked the price very high, but she had already sold most of that basket.

As Richard passed by, she habitually looked up and called out, "Sir, would you like to buy a bunch?"

"Who do you think I should give it to?"

The old woman was stunned for a moment. She had been selling flowers for so many days, and no one had ever asked that question before.

She glanced down at her basket of white flowers.

"Give this to those who can't come back this year."

Richard thought for a moment, and although no one in his family was currently in trouble, he still took out three pence and bought a bunch.

He carried the bouquet of white chrysanthemums to the riverbank and placed it under the railing.

The rain was still falling slowly, and the petals were soon covered with water.

………………

In March, the rain was even heavier than in February.

The fallen leaves landed on the old sycamore trees in front of the teaching building, pressing last year's withered leaves one by one into the soil, where they continued to rot.

More than half a month has passed since the day of mourning.

Books on how to communicate with the dead were removed from bookstores and replaced with a new collection of memorial poems printed by the parish itself.

The lines outside the candy shop have shortened, and business of selling these black gauze items has slowed down.

That day, Richard was stopped by the mailroom staff as he came out of his morning ritual language class.

He received a letter.

The thick, milky-white envelope had an oak leaf emblem folded over it in the lower left corner.

He walked back to the classroom, but everyone had already left.

Richard sat down by the window and peeled off the sealing wax, finding two pieces of paper inside.

The first document was a notification that his essay, "Our Island," which he submitted last December, had been selected for a writing contest.

Inside was a check for a £50 bonus and a gold-plated badge.

And a permit for public distribution throughout the country upon recommendation by the Imperial Publishing Administration.

The second sheet only had the judges' comments, which read...

"The person who writes about islands has stood on the beach himself."

Richard folded the paper and tucked it into his notebook.

He finished writing this essay, titled "Our Island," around mid-December of last year.

At that time, he hadn't expected there would be such a day of mourning, but he had a vague feeling that a storm was brewing.

In the second period, Fisher slammed a newspaper on his desk.

The bandages on his head had long been removed, but the pinkish scar on his forehead was still throbbing.

"Williams, you've been hiding this well," he said, sounding somewhat surprised.

Richard glanced down; it was the top column of the "Capital Evening Post" supplement, with the title printed in large print.

"A Heartbreaking Prophecy from a Northern Boy: The Winner of This Year's Youth Essay Contest"

He was somewhat surprised; how did this even make the newspapers?

Fisher was somewhat incredulous: "Didn't you see the reaction yourself?"

Richard flipped through the newspaper.

"I've been very busy lately and haven't been looking at these."

The supplement published excerpts from all the submissions for this call for papers, and his was the third one listed.

He glanced at the first two articles, which were mostly high-sounding words that made him want to straighten his back after reading them.

The selected writers all had good writing skills, but his own piece was a completely different story.

Fisher pointed to that excerpt:

"We only stepped into this house for the first time on the day of the funeral."

In the room upstairs where the lights were on, there were four sets of cutlery on the table, but no one was using them.

There were three pairs of men's boots at the foot of the bed. If the owner of the smallest pair were still alive, he would be 50 years old this year.

There was a ring of salt on the windowsill, and the lamp wick had been freshly trimmed that morning.

Of those people, the one who left last was gone almost 40 years ago.

We were going to laugh at her for being silly, but now that we're actually standing in this room, no one can laugh.

It wasn't until we were leaving that we realized that, over the past 40 years, it wasn't her who was infatuated.

She single-handedly protected everything that needed to be protected on the entire island for us.

So that we can free up our hands and live our own lives in peace.

That night, I don't know who started it, but first the row of low houses at the foot of the cliff where the fish market was located, and then one by one the windows of all the houses on the island behind the dock lit up.

Looking down from the cliff top, the entire island itself appears as a lamp.

Fisher waited until he finished reading, then stared at him.

"Why did you include things like sprinkling salt, leaving the light on, and not rushing to open the door in your article written in December?"

Did you foresee this day of mourning all along?

Richard chuckled and didn't give him a direct answer.

I did learn some things through Mrs. McNeill and through information exchanges at the Theological Salon.

This essay was a product of his guessing the topic, but he didn't expect the response to be so good.

At the end of the supplement, the editor wrote a commentary.

"The author, Richard Williams, is 18 years old, from Briston, and is currently a preparatory student in the Department of Classics at Imperial College."

"When our committee reviewed this manuscript at the end of December last year, several judges had disagreements."

Some felt the tone of the article was too somber and didn't quite align with its original intention of boosting morale.

"But after the day of mourning, when we reread this article, we realized that its somber tone was precisely its profound meaning."

The author uses the restraint of an island to depict the grief of the entire nation, and beneath this backdrop of sorrow lies a deeper meaning: people will return when dawn breaks.

"To grieve without being devastated, to mourn without being able to rise again—this is precisely the sentence that our empire's citizens should hear most during this national crisis."

Richard only realized why this piece was so popular after reading this.

It wasn't just because it was well-written; the timing of its release was also perfect.

Hundreds of thousands of families have just bowed their heads in tears for those who will not return home, and newspapers are filled with long lists of the dead every day.

This tragic era needs someone to cry for them, and also someone to wipe away their tears and stand up again.

His essay combines both of these qualities.

Of course, it's not just about the article itself. Even if it were just an ordinary essay written by a teenager from the north, no matter how moving it was, it might not actually win an award or be featured on the front page of the "Capital Evening Post".

Ultimately, it depends on the background.

Richard folded the newspaper and returned it to Fisher.

Fisher was still muttering to himself.

"You're really going to be famous, Williams."

It's not just about becoming famous within our small circle; people on the street will probably be talking about you.

Five days after the essay contest went viral, the editor-in-chief of Century Review sent him a letter inviting him to contribute.

The *Century Review* and the *Northern Literature Review* are not even in the same league.

At the level of "The Century Review," upper-class gentlemen and officials would start reading it.

The editor-in-chief was very polite in his letter, saying that he had read Richard's essay and thought it was well-written, and asked if Richard would be interested in starting a long-term column in the magazine.

No restrictions on subject matter or word count; generous remuneration.

Li realized that he wanted both the generous royalties and the fame and influence that came with them; he wanted to have both.

"Strange Tales Collection" was written for the lower classes, "Northern Literary Review" was written for the middle classes, and "Century Review" had a different group of readers.

They would flip through newspapers on the leather sofas in the club, or sign and stamp documents in the Ministry of the Interior and the Ministry of War.

These people can get a whole circle of people to nod in agreement with just a single sentence.

If Richard can make an impression on these people and even gain some influence, his future path will be much brighter.