The other person still didn’t give up on praising his kindness. Edward Harris used the excuse of asking her to turn on the air conditioner. “It feels stuffy in the room.”

“Okay.”

Left alone to shelve the books, Edward Harris let the smile fade from his face, quietly unwrapping the transparent plastic, when a sudden clap of thunder sounded outside the window.

As he bent down again to take a new set from the box, he noticed a striking line printed on the book’s paper band:

[My entire life is nothing but a vulgar struggle to climb the social ladder.]①

Edward Harris stared at it in silence for a moment, then removed the band, folded it in half, and tossed it into the nearby trash can.

“Yixiao, can you help hand out the feedback cards?”

“Mm, sure.” Edward Harris put the books away and turned to leave.

Students participating in the event came in one after another. When the small screening room was nearly full, Edward Harris stepped up to the front, smiling as he introduced the arrangements for the book and film club, encouraging everyone to join the discussion. Even though he himself couldn’t muster much interest, he would have much preferred to spend this hour working at his part-time job, earning money to pay off his debts.

But at this top university, there was never a shortage of students passionate about the arts. Unlike him, most people here had access to the best educational resources from birth. These privileged students didn’t have to struggle endlessly with exam prep; they had plenty of time to enrich themselves.

People naturally formed small groups in their seats, sharing books. Edward Harris felt relieved—he didn’t have to worry about the first half of the event.

While everyone discussed, he sat to the side, using the activity room’s computer to prepare lessons.

Tutoring eighth-grade math was his main source of living expenses, and also the easiest of all his part-time jobs.

“Yixiao, when does the movie start?” About halfway through, club member William Thompson came over and asked in a low voice, “Should we wait another ten minutes?”

Edward Harris smiled, his eyes still on the computer screen, his tone light. “Sure.” He finished typing the last formula, closed the document, and stood up to make room for William Thompson. “Did you copy the file?”

“Not yet, I’ll do it now,” said William Thompson.

Once everything was ready, Edward Harris got up and turned off all the lights. William Thompson clicked play, the projector lit up, and the movie began.

It was an obscure autobiographical film—Mirror. The opening was a long zoom shot: a field blooming with blue-violet flowers like an oil painting, country trees and houses, a woman smoking on a fence, and a cryptic poetic monologue.

There was a strong wind blowing in the film—so strong that Edward Harris began to wonder if it was a coincidence during filming or intentional, and what method could create such a powerful wind.

The whole field rippled with waves of grass, a green sea.

Edward Harris and William Thompson stood side by side against the wall, watching the projection in a half-interested way.

He seriously wondered—could it be a helicopter?

Just then, the closed door of the screening room creaked softly. The door opened a crack, and a boy slipped in quietly, closing the door behind him.

When he turned his head, his rain-soaked face was bathed in the iridescent glow of the screen, like an oil painting. Probably from running in the rain, he was slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling.

A flash of lightning outside the window illuminated his wet brows and eyes.

Edward Harris felt as if something instinctively grabbed hold of him.

On screen, a man recited a Russian poem in a monotone, the subtitles rolling:

[Every moment we meet is celebrated as a holiday, the world is only you and me.

You, lighter and braver than a bird, race down the spiral stairs, lead me through the lilac bushes, into your domain.②]

Edward Harris missed the translation of these verses, but later, he would never forget the scene of Eric Wright appearing in the dim screening room.

So much so that later, countless times in his mind and dreams, he would reconstruct this image.

As the newcomer walked step by step toward the back row, it wasn’t just the shifting light and shadow that followed, but also Edward Harris’s gaze. He didn’t even realize he’d been staring for a long time, until William Thompson nudged him with his elbow.

“Hey, did you see that guy?”

William Thompson’s voice was very low, mostly drowned out by the movie’s music.

Edward Harris lowered his head a bit awkwardly, waited two seconds, then replied in a hushed voice, “What about him?”

“The one who just came in, Eric Wright, you know him, right?” There was a hint of contempt and mockery in William Thompson’s smile, though not obvious.

Edward Harris just shook his head and forced a smile. “How could I know everyone?”

“True, you’re in the computer science department, so it’s normal not to know. He’s a weirdo, really strange.”

William Thompson had used those words to describe him from the start, which made Edward Harris feel a bit displeased, though he didn’t show it.

William Thompson didn’t notice. After being stared at by a student in the front row, he took out his phone and sent a WeChat message to Edward Harris.

[Business School - William Thompson: He’s in my college, but not my major—he’s in finance. The workload in our school’s finance department is insane, people wish there were 48 hours in a day instead of 24.]