Droga, eu vim parar no livro lixo que eu mesmo escrevi
Cheguei ao meu próprio livro mal escrito, ao lado de um jovem excêntrico, segurando o dispositivo de trapaça que originalmente pertencia ao protagonista (um celular), parado na encruzilhada da históri
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Dressed in a plain blue robe, a small hat, and hemp shoes, having lived in the trash novel he wrote himself for three years, Xia Lin still hadn’t fully adapted to his identity. Every day felt unbearably difficult.
“Why are you spacing out again? Something on your mind?”
The speaker resembled Kong Yiji from Mr. Lu Xun’s stories—a man who insisted on wearing a long gown even while standing and drinking. Officially, Xia Lin was his book attendant, but in reality, they were colleagues. The two were currently helping wash dishes at a banquet held by Madam Wang Er’s family in town.
“Why do you care if I have something on my mind? You’re supposed to be a scholar, aren’t you? Must you drag me here to wash dishes? Won’t you be embarrassed if someone sees us?”
Xia Lin’s tone was sharp, but the young master wasn’t bothered. Instead, he spoke gently to soothe him: “Daosheng, look, we only have three wen left now. That’s not even enough for three buns. Working a day for someone else here can earn five hundred wen, and we can take home some of the leftover food. Why wouldn’t we do such a good thing?”
“If you want to do it, then go ahead. Why drag me along?”
Xia Lin threw the rag into the basin, set aside the cleaned bowls and chopsticks, and the young master rinsed them again with well water. They had been washing dishes here for three days. This wealthy family’s banquet was truly lavish; even Xia Lin, who came from the modern world, found it excessively wasteful. But money talks.
“The Wang family’s young master and I studied