Yes… I understand… Manager Smith, please give me a little more time! I'll find a way…"
Inside the room, Li Kai's father, Li Yongtang, lowered his voice to a trembling plea.
The bank had come to press for payment again.
They even threatened to seize the cinema for auction.
At this moment, the usually stern man who prized dignity above all else had lost every shred of the small-time boss aura he'd once had while running the theater. "I know what an auction means… I know… please, don't do this…"
The voice on the other end was clearly an icy, formulaic ultimatum; it hung up without mercy, stripping away his last ounce of pride.
Beep—beep—beep…
The dial tone rang like open mockery, echoing harshly through the silent living room.
Li Yongtang collapsed into his chair as though all strength had been siphoned from him, hands covering his face. The cinema—into which he'd poured his heart and soul, and which had now flung him into this abyss—was about to be repossessed and auctioned by the bank. It meant they would soon have nothing, perhaps not even this modest apartment that kept out the wind and rain.
After a long silence he suddenly stood, grabbed his coat, and said hoarsely to Li Kai, "I—I'll go out again, see a few old friends."
The so-called "going out" meant swallowing his last shred of pride to borrow money.
Li Kai watched the original owner's father shuffle out, back stooped, and felt something clog his chest, heavy and sour. He'd thought that, with a soul from the future, he could face it all calmly. But the genuine, hopeless despair in his father still seeped deep into him.
"Dad, I've written a book. As soon as I find a publisher, we'll get an advance. We'll make it through," Li Kai said.
Li Yongtang started slightly at the words, lifted his head toward his son; a flicker of disbelief crossed his exhausted eyes.
"Good boy, Dad believes in you!" His voice was hoarse; he reached out and clapped Li Kai's shoulder hard, as if trying to pass some strength through that touch.
With that he turned in silence and walked out, each step heavy yet resolute.
Li Kai stood watching the slightly stooped figure disappear through the doorway, a complex ache welling up inside. He had inherited every memory of this body and knew exactly how proud this father had been—the man in those memories stood ramrod-straight, never bowing to anyone, let alone swallowing every last ounce of dignity to beg for loans.
The scene silenced even this transmigrated soul. In his previous life he too had been a father and knew the crushing weight a man carries for his children: a burden silent yet sufficient to bend the spine; for them, any bitterness can be swallowed, any humiliation endured. In Li Yongtang's resolute back he read that very love—mountain-steady, buried beneath silence.
That night Li Kai bought stacks of paper, printed and bound his manuscript, ready to mail it the next morning to the top names on the list of addresses he'd painstakingly found in the library. At dawn he woke early.
He didn't know when Li Yongtang had returned, nor whether he'd succeeded in borrowing anything. But he knew all too well—forty thousand dollars in 1960 was no trifling sum.
It was the dead of winter for Hollywood. Television's spread was like a silent tsunami, toppling theaters that had stood for decades. Closure, bankruptcy, liquidation—every day another cinema took down its sign and locked its doors. In an industry so withered and everyone jittery, who would cough up such a fortune?
Forty thousand dollars!
Lend it out and you might as well kiss it goodbye.
Everyone understood the Li family could never repay it.
So relatives, friends, former business partners… all chose silence and avoidance.
Li Yongtang nearly wore through every threshold he knew, yet reaped only the same evasions, helpless shrugs, or doors slammed in his face. Human warmth and coldness show their true colors before money.
Li Kai knew that chill only too well—borrowing is never easy. He recalled his previous life: how many people would rather turn to high-interest online loans, watching debts snowball, than ask friends or kin.
Not because they didn't want to—because they didn't dare.
Mention money and feelings thin. If the other side wished to dodge, they'd feign poverty or play dumb, trapping both parties in tacit awkwardness. Fear of rejection, and even more of the irreparable gaze afterward.
Soon Li Kai reached the post office.
As he dropped the envelopes into the mail-slot, he exhaled in relief; he brimmed confidence in The Godfather. He could already picture editors stunned speechless by the masterpiece, the advance check that would ease their urgent needs, even Hollywood studios scrambling for adaptation rights.
For the first few days that optimism sustained him.
But day after day passed and the mails sank like stones.
One week—no reply. He told himself big publishers are slow; it's normal.
Into the second week—still silence. He began checking the mailbox obsessively.
By the third week the first reply arrived: a standard business envelope from Random House. His heart pounded as he tore it open.
Inside lay a politely worded, perfectly formatted rejection.
"…Thank you for your submission. Your work shows unique vision; however, after careful assessment, our editorial team feels the subject and style do not currently fit our publishing program… We wish you success elsewhere…"
The cold printed words felt like ice water dashed in his face. He stood frozen for several minutes.
No matter—only one house. He forced down his panic; there were other chances. The rest hadn't answered; they might have keener eyes.
The fourth day brought the second letter, from a smaller press: virtually identical—"sensitive subject," "not marketable," "best of luck."
Fifth, sixth… every submission he'd mailed came back in cruel, identical fashion: polite, distant, shut-outs.
Hope, like a shadow lengthening at sunset, thinned, faded, and was swallowed by night.
Li Kai began to suffer insomnia, staring at the cracked ceiling through sleepless nights.
"A few years later The Godfather will explode across the globe; why not now?"
"Am I simply born at the wrong time?"
He sighed, shook his head, words caught in his throat.