Director Zhu Wenhai stared at Lin Che as if he had been struck by lightning.
Reject him—without even hearing the story?
For a moment, he forgot the heat, forgot the exhaustion in his legs, forgot how undignified he must look sitting in a rural wooden chair with dust still clinging to his trousers. All he could focus on was the calm, steady expression on the young woman's face, the way she was not dazzled, not flustered, not even tempted in the way he was used to seeing.
"You won't even listen?" he asked again, slower this time, as if testing whether he had heard her correctly.
Lin Che hesitated.
She glanced at her grandmother, who was sitting quietly to the side, hands folded in her lap. The old woman's gaze was gentle but alert, clearly leaving the decision entirely to her granddaughter. There was no excitement, no greed, no pushing—only trust.
That, more than anything, made Lin Che steady herself.
"It's not that I don't want to listen," she said softly. "It's just… I don't think listening will change the outcome."
Director Zhu frowned deeply. "You haven't even given yourself a chance."
Lin Che gave a small, self-conscious smile. "That's because I know myself very well."
She stood up, poured him a cup of cool water from the clay kettle, and placed it in front of him. The action was unhurried, natural, as if he were simply a guest who had walked a long road rather than a famous director offering a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
"I've lived in this village my whole life," she continued. "I cook, I take care of my grandmother, I work when there is work. I don't know anything about cameras, scripts, lighting, or acting. I wouldn't even know where to stand."
Director Zhu opened his mouth, ready to counter, but she raised her hand slightly—not rudely, just firmly.
"And I know you said you can arrange teachers, coaches, all of that," she added. "But acting isn't just learning lines, is it? It's expression, experience, understanding emotions I may not even know how to name."
Her voice did not tremble. It wasn't fear speaking—it was clarity.
Director Zhu looked at her closely.
At first glance, she truly did seem like an ordinary village girl. But the more he listened, the more he realized that her ordinariness was layered with something rare—self-awareness without self-pity, humility without smallness.
"That's exactly why you're right for it," he said, his voice growing animated again despite himself. "The female lead in Moonlit Promise isn't a glamorous woman. She's not someone polished by the world. She's someone real."
He leaned forward, eyes bright.
"She lives in a small town. She loses someone important. She learns what it means to keep living even when the future feels empty. I don't want someone who knows how to act that pain. I want someone who understands quiet endurance."
Lin Che's fingers curled slightly.
She didn't miss the way his words brushed dangerously close to parts of her she hadn't allowed herself to touch yet.
Her grandmother noticed, too, and shifted slightly in her seat, watching Lin Che more carefully now.
Director Zhu continued, unaware—or perhaps aware, but unwilling to stop.
"When I saw you at the banquet," he said, his tone softening, "you weren't trying to stand out. You weren't smiling to please anyone. But you looked… steady. Like someone who could be pushed by the world and still stand upright."
Lin Che lowered her eyes.
That night at the Gong residence flashed unbidden through her mind—the lights, the announcement, the feeling of something being torn away from her without warning. Gong Rui's face. Gong Feng's quiet room. The steaming bowl of food.
She exhaled slowly.
"Director Zhu," she said, "you are giving me far too much credit."
He shook his head. "No. I'm trusting my instincts."
She looked up at him again, meeting his gaze directly this time.
"My instincts tell me the opposite," she replied. "I'm at a point in my life where I need stability, not uncertainty. Acting… that world is too far from me."
"And staying here forever isn't uncertain?" he challenged.
Lin Che didn't answer right away.
Outside, the cicadas had started buzzing again, their sound drifting in through the open window, slow and persistent. The late afternoon light slanted across the wooden floor, catching dust motes in the air. Everything felt ordinary, achingly so—and that ordinariness grounded her.
"I'm not afraid of uncertainty," she said at last. "I'm afraid of stepping into a place where I don't belong and becoming a burden instead of a contribution."
Director Zhu studied her, searching for hesitation he could seize onto.
But there was none.
Only quiet resolve.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. For the first time since arriving, his shoulders sagged slightly, as though the long journey had finally caught up to him.
"So that's your final answer," he said.
Lin Che nodded. "I'm sorry."
Her grandmother said nothing, but her hand rested gently against Lin Che's arm, warm and steady.
For a moment, Director Zhu simply sat there, staring at the floor. Then he stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers, his movements slower now, more restrained.
"I won't force you," he said. "That wouldn't be right."
Lin Che stood as well, walking him to the door. No one spoke. There was nothing left to argue, nothing left to persuade.
Outside, the small dirt path leading down the hill looked even steeper in the afternoon heat.
Director Zhu paused at the threshold.
"I came here believing I'd found exactly what I needed," he said quietly. "I still believe that."
Lin Che lowered her head slightly. "I hope your film succeeds."
He gave a faint smile. "It will."
Then he stepped out, turning once to nod at her grandmother in farewell. The old woman returned the gesture with calm dignity.
Lin Che watched as he began his descent, his figure growing smaller with each step. Dust rose faintly beneath his shoes, then settled again.
She thought that was the end of it.
Just as he reached the bend in the path, Director Zhu stopped.
He turned around abruptly, as if something had finally pushed through his restraint.
"Lin Che."
She looked up.
"This project," he said, voice carrying clearly despite the distance, "is a thirty-eight-episode production."
She stiffened slightly.
"Each episode pays three hundred thousand yuan."
The words landed with unexpected weight.
He didn't say anything else. No pressure. No persuasion. Just facts.
"Think about it," he added. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."