My cousin asked me to go to Wuha, and Hanikezi stuck to me.

This sentence followed Chen Yi from his birthday until he flew back to the film crew in his suitcase.

He saved the videos Hanikezi recorded into a folder deep within his phone's photo album, placing them alongside family videos he had accumulated over the years.

On the third day after returning to the filming location in Yunnan, the crew moved to Japan.

The filming of the Japanese segment focused on a well-preserved old Showa-era neighborhood near Kyoto.

The entire street is lined with old wooden shops on both sides, with rusty tin signs hanging on the utility poles.

The Japanese branch of the violin-making shop is located in a small, detached courtyard at the end of the alley.

Half-withered wisteria vines climbed the courtyard wall, their branches swaying gently in the late spring breeze.

Zheng Yiming's shooting style remained steady.

Before each scene, I don't say a single word; after filming, I either nod or shake my head.

After four months of honing his skills, Chen Yi had long since adapted to this rhythm.

He even realized that this minimalist communication style was much more efficient than the noisy and chaotic atmosphere on variety show sets back then.

There are no superfluous words, no empty gestures; everything is left to the work to speak for itself.

In the final week, all the outdoor scenes were completed, leaving only one final indoor scene.

Zheng Yiming had drawn the storyboard for this scene three months ago, but it was only filmed on the last day before filming wrapped.

The script is written concisely.

The old craftsman finished the last instrument of his life, wiped it clean, placed it in the center of the workbench, stepped back two paces, and watched it with a smile.

There are no lines.

There was no background music.

It all comes down to a single, uninterrupted long shot, slowly panning from a close-up of the craftsman's hands to his face, stopping at that smile.

The night before, Chen Yi sat in his room at the camp for a long time.

He didn't look at the script or do any research.

On the table lay the zither he had personally crafted four months ago, its strings installed and the lacquer still bearing the fine lines of hand-polished texture.

He reached out and touched a crooked, thin mark carved on the neck of the instrument.

That was a mark left by my shaky hands during my second month of apprenticeship. My master said it could be smoothed out, but he didn't fix it.

The next morning, the film set was unusually quiet.

The lighting team adjusted all main light sources to a soft, warm color setting and removed all secondary light sources.

On the set, only an old wooden worktable remains, with a finely crafted handmade zither on its surface.

The body of the instrument is made from old wood sourced by the props team during filming in Yunnan. The wood has fine grain and a warm, rich color.

Chen Yi put on his costume and stood in front of the work table.

The apron was stained with old wood chips and varnish, and the cloth shoes with their multi-layered soles made no sound when they stepped on the cement floor.

Zheng Yiming sat behind the monitor, his hands resting on his knees, his posture even quieter than usual.

The camera operator picked up the camera and slowly moved it to the marked position directly in front of Chen Yi, holding his breath.

The clapperboard made a crisp, clear sound.

"Power on."

Chen Yi lowered his head, his gaze falling on the piano on the worktable.

He stretched out his hands, palms down, fingertips lightly resting on the surface of the instrument.

The left hand slides upwards along the curve of the neck, the fingertips brushing over every mortise and tenon joint.

Hold the bottom of the instrument with your right hand, lift the entire instrument steadily, and turn it over to examine the grain of the wood on the back panel.

The movements were very slow.

He was talking to a living creature.

He placed the violin back in the center of the table and took two steps back.

The camera slowly pans upwards, following a close-up of the hand.

When Chen Yi's face came into view, everyone in the audience held their breath.

He didn't laugh.

It wasn't the kind of smile written in the script.

His lips didn't curve upwards, and his eyebrows and eyes didn't deliberately relax.

The muscles in his face were completely relaxed, and a thin layer of light floated in his eyes, like the mist that forms on a windowpane on a winter morning, gentle yet elusive.

That was the face of a person who had exhausted all their strength to finish their work, put down their tools, and made peace with the world.

The long take lasted a full forty-seven seconds.

"Passed."

Zheng Yiming's voice came from behind the monitor, his tone steady.

The set was silent for three seconds.

The console operator was the first to put down the machine and slap his thigh.

The sound engineer took off his headphones, tilted his head back, and let out a long breath.

The lighting technician leaned against the reflector stand, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips tightly pursed.

Applause peeked out from the corners and then spread outwards in waves.

It wasn't the kind of enthusiastic, deafening cheers, but rather restrained, weighty, and respectful clapping.

Chen Yi stood in front of the worktable, calmed his breathing, and bowed to the surroundings.

Zheng Yiming got up from the folding chair, walked around the monitor, and stood in front of him.

The old man stopped in front of him and looked him over for a few seconds.

Why isn't this one laughing?

"The old craftsman won't smile when he finishes making his last instrument."

"What was he feeling?"

"He's let it go. He's done his job to the best of his ability. As for how people will judge him in the future, let Qin speak for him. Whether he smiles or not is not something he cares about."

Zheng Yiming nodded, his expression calm.

"In the films you've directed, have any actors given you a similar surprise?"

"There was one time, but it wasn't as significant as today's."

"What's so good about this one?"

"Luckily I didn't act."

Zheng Yiming listened without replying, then turned and walked back behind the monitor.

The wrap party was scheduled for that evening.

The film crew booked an izakaya (Japanese pub) near their accommodation. More than 30 people sat in a tatami room with yakitori (grilled chicken) and sake on the table.

The atmosphere was much more relaxed than when filming. The sound engineer played a folk song off-key on his guitar, while the lighting technician and production crew huddled in a corner playing rock-paper-scissors.

Zheng Yiming sat in the main seat, with a small porcelain cup filled with sake in front of him.

He doesn't talk much, but when he hears laughter, he twitches the corner of his mouth.

After a few rounds of drinks, the old man picked up his glass and stood up.

The noise in the private room immediately subsided.

Zheng Yiming raised his wine glass and looked around at the faces of everyone present.

The gaze finally landed on Chen Yi, who was sitting by the window.

"This toast is to all of you."

He had a deep voice and spoke slowly.

"Especially respect to our male lead."

Everyone at the table turned to look at Chen Yi.

Zheng Yiming took a sip of wine and put down his glass.

"You make me believe that there are still good actors in the era of internet traffic."

These words carry immense weight.

What comes out of Zheng Yiming's mouth is more effective than a film critic's thousand-word essay.

Chen Yi picked up his wine glass, stood up, and tilted the rim of the glass towards Zheng Yiming.

"Thank you for making me believe that good roles are worth waiting for."

Two cups touched each other across half a table, the porcelain surfaces making a crisp sound.

After the banquet ended, Chen Yi walked back to his residence alone.

A cool night breeze caressed my face in the suburbs of Kyoto, and a few dim streetlights hung in the old streets and alleys, casting long shadows on the stone pavement.

He took out his phone and dialed Xiao Fang's number.

Filming has wrapped.

"smoothly?"

"A well-executed ending."

Xiao Fang whistled on the other end.

"Which film festival will we submit this film to after post-production?"

"Director Zheng's team aims to qualify for the top three at the Olympics next year."

Which of the three should I choose?

"They said they'd submit Cannes first, with Venice as a backup. They'll decide after the rough cut."

Xiao Fang paused for a few seconds.

"Do you understand what being shortlisted means?"

"It means there's one more line on your resume."

"Don't try to impress me. A Golden Rooster Award for Best Actor plus a Cannes nomination is called a career Grand Slam. You can count the number of people in the entire Chinese-speaking world who have achieved that on two hands."

Chen Yi walked forward along the stone path, the night wind blowing into his collar.

Whether or not a work is shortlisted depends on its own merits; I can't control that. I've done what I needed to do, and now I'll leave the rest to time.