Returning to the 82 Mountain Village: An Encounter with the Journey to the West Film Crew at the Beg

At this moment, a tall and honest-looking figure emerged from the crowd; it was Chen Dashan.

He was carrying a small net bag containing a few fruits and a small packet of dark, unsightly things wrapped in old newspapers.

"This will quench your thirst on the road. This bag contains dried wild mushrooms, which are great for making soup! Bring them to the film crew and tell them... it's the taste of the mountains in Qingshi Village!" Brother Dashan didn't say much, but he was very sincere.

Zhou Fangyuan could no longer hold them all, so Zhou's mother quickly took off an old cloth bag she always carried and carefully packed each item into it.

This bag, which wasn't originally very big, was now stuffed full, filled with the warmth of the entire village.

The luggage on the oxcart emitted a mixture of rustic food aromas.

Zhou Fangyuan thanked the villagers again, then stepped onto the cart shaft and sat on the straw next to Uncle Yang.

"Hold on tight!" Uncle Yang gently cracked his whip, and the old ox took steady steps. The oxcart made a rhythmic "creak" sound as it slowly started moving.

"Mom, Sister, Uncle Zhao, Uncle Wang, Brother Dashan, everyone go back! I'll write to you when I get there!" Zhou Fangyuan turned around and waved vigorously.

The mother, Wang Fuying, stood at the front, simply nodding and raising her hand slightly.

The little girl jumped up and down waving her hands, and Uncle Zhao and Uncle Wang nodded with smiles. Chen Dashan and the villagers also stood under the old camphor tree, watching the oxcart slowly drive away.

The oxcart slowly drove along the dirt road towards the outside of the mountains.

Zhou Fangyuan sat in the slightly swaying car, looking back at the village that was getting further and further away.

The smoke from cooking fires, the old trees, and the figures of the villagers gradually blurred, blending into the morning mist and the shadows of the mountains.

Uncle Yang was a man of few words, only occasionally letting out a "whoosh" or "oh" to the cows, without saying much else. But this slow and steady journey gave Zhou Fangyuan enough time to calm his mind.

He touched the bulging gifts under the sack beside him, and then pressed the few things his mother had wrapped by hand in his arms. The creaking of the oxcart sounded like the last words of his hometown.

The mountain road wound its way forward, and as the morning mist gradually dissipated, the outlines of more open fields and highways became faintly visible ahead.

Sitting on the oxcart, with a cart full of simple yet profound affection behind him, Zhou Fangyuan felt a warm and unwavering strength in his heart.

The oxcart had been traveling for about an hour when a "putt-putt-putt" sound came from behind. A tractor heading to the county town had caught up with it.

The driver recognized Uncle Yang and greeted him loudly, "Old Yang, where are you going? Need a ride?"

Uncle Yang stopped the oxcart and said to Zhou Fangyuan, "Fangya, this is faster and goes directly to the train station. You should switch to this one."

Zhou Fangyuan thanked Uncle Yang and climbed onto the back of the tractor with his luggage.

Uncle Yang waved goodbye, saying, "Fang, do your best out there! Don't worry about things in the village!"

Uncle Yang, with a pipe in his mouth, didn't say much, but he was very sincere. Zhou Fangyuan responded gratefully.

As Zhou Fangyuan watched the oxcart slowly turn around and head back, he thought of the small mountain village again. He felt reluctant to leave, but more than that, he felt a sense of hopeful peace.

He thought to himself with emotion that this relay race was like the mountain road, with each section having its own way of being walked.

The tractor, billowing black smoke, bumped along the mountain road, its speed indeed increasing considerably.

The wind whistled against my face, carrying the chill of late autumn.

Zhou Fangyuan wrapped his clothes tighter around himself, watching the familiar scenery rushing past on both sides of the road, and the feeling of leaving home became more and more real.

After a long and winding journey, he finally sat in a hard seat on the train, listening to the rhythmic clanging of the wheels against the rails.

As I looked out the window at the gradually opening scenery, my heart slowly calmed down from the chaos of parting and the weariness of the journey.

The carriage was filled with various smells and voices, but the window seat gave him a relatively peaceful little world.

Zhou Fangyuan carefully took out the notebook, which was already slightly curled at the edges.

Opening the notebook, the first part is mostly observations, sketches, and dialogue inspirations that Teacher Dai jotted down in his spare time. The handwriting is free and easy, full of life.

The blank spaces that follow are notes he took down gradually after returning from his trip.

With the pen tip hovering over the paper, memories of the people and events from my few days back home flooded my mind like a warm current.

He first recalled the scene of Uncle Zhao holding up the letter of introduction in the sunset. The bright red official seal was like a spark, reflecting not only on the paper but also on every dark and expectant face around him.

After writing down the words "the official seal of the mountains," he seemed to see again Li Laoguai puffing out his pipe and Widow Sun's barely audible sigh...

Then, the warm scene in the kitchen emerges: the precious care with which the mother picked the fish-fragrant leaves, the subtle changes in the color of the dried sweet potatoes under the dim red glow of the charcoal fire, and the final surprise of the complex aroma blooming on the tongue...

After writing down all the things that happened in the village, he flipped back to the beginning and reread Old Dai's notes.

One passage reads: "Among the crowd seeing people off at the station, a boy, barely a teenager, clung tightly to his father's clothes, but stubbornly held back his tears."

The father squatted down and rubbed his stubble-covered face vigorously against the child's cheek. The child recoiled as if burned, then grinned, revealing a smile that was more like a grimace than a cry, yet strangely bright.

As Zhou Fangyuan watched, something inside him was gently touched.

The child's suppressed tears and eventual smile in Dai Lao's writing, compared to the complex expressions of the villagers facing hope in his notebook, the mother's quiet waiting before the stove, and the blurry yet resounding figures in the fog at parting...

These images and emotions suddenly came alive in his mind.

They are no longer just words on paper or memories in the mind; they have sound, contrast of light and shadow, tangible temperature, and perceptible rhythm.

An unprecedented, clear, and intense thought, like a ray of sunlight suddenly streaming through the car window, illuminated his thoughts.

Why not try writing these things down? Write them into a story that people can "see"?

It's not a grand epic, but rather a story about a few days in a small mountain village, and how an official seal ignites a cautious hope.

How an experiment by the stove exemplifies patience and wisdom;

How can a joyful farewell stir up the deepest longing...?

He wanted to write about the resilience that thrives on this land, and the vitality that quietly brews in ordinary days.

Write a short screenplay.

The thought made his heart beat slightly faster, and his fingertips holding the pen felt a little hot.

Although he did a lot of behind-the-scenes work in his previous life, he had never tried writing a script himself, and Master Dai's teachings and his notes at this time were like the most intimate guidance.

The story is there, in everyone's eyes, in every ordinary word, in every small attempt and farewell.

The train roared, carrying him toward his predetermined job and a prosperous future.

But in the noisy carriage, this window seat seemed to become a private and quiet world.