“The Most Beautiful” received critical acclaim, far exceeding the expectations of everyone involved in its production.
Yet Ye Zhou couldn’t find joy in this moment. Last night, shortly after the premiere began, he received a phone call.
It was Sang Yu, her voice raspy and filled with barely concealed sorrow.
“Uncle just woke up. He wants to see you.”
Ye Zhou instantly understood she meant Director Sang. Waking up from a coma should be cause for celebration but Sang Yu’s voice sounded so… heartbroken.
His heart sank. Without hesitation, he rushed to the hospital after hanging up.
Through the window, Ye Zhou saw Director Sang lying in bed, his frail body entangled in tubes and machines, almost unrecognizable in his emaciated state.
Sang Yu was wearing a blue isolation suit and watched her uncle with reddened eyes. The scene brought tears to Ye Zhou’s eyes as well.
Sensing Ye Zhou’s arrival, Sang Yu glanced outside. Spotting him, she whispered something to her uncle before hurrying to the door.
“I’ve spoken with the doctor. Only one visitor at a time. He’s waiting for you. Go in,” Sang Yu said softly, her eyes glistening.
Ye Zhou wanted to ask something but couldn’t find the words. Silently, he donned the protective gear and entered the room with careful steps.
Standing by the bed, Ye Zhou’s heart ached at the sight of the once-vibrant director, now barely recognizable in his frailty.
Director Sang slowly opened his eyes. Upon seeing Ye Zhou, a spark of clarity lit his clouded gaze. His face twitched beneath the oxygen mask.
Ye Zhou felt a cool hand grasp his own. He vividly remembered their first meeting, when the director’s hands were warm and dry.
He wasn’t an emotional person, but seeing Director Sang so ill made his eyes sting with unshed tears.
The director’s condition was severe. Ye Zhou could only see his lips move, and even with his ear close, he heard only faint whispers, unable to understand what Director Sang wanted to express.
Ye Zhou turned away, taking a moment to compose himself before facing the director again.
He pulled up a stool and sat down by the bed. He held Director Sang’s hand and said softly, “Director Sang, we’ve finished the film. It’s exactly as you envisioned, and the result is excellent.”
“I recently spoke with several major theater chain representatives. They’re giving us more screenings out of respect for you. Your reputation is invaluable; without your influence, who knows how we’d fare.”
Ye Zhou took a deep breath, controlling his emotions and forcing a smile. “You should’ve seen the test screening. Those executives were sobbing uncontrollably. We ran out of tissues.”
He felt a gentle squeeze on his hand, knowing Director Sang could hear him and was responding.
Ye Zhou chuckled, trying to sound cheerful. “I even suggested setting up tissue stands outside theaters instead of selling snacks. We’d make our money back on tissues alone.”
“With increased screenings, even if it’s just a bit more, we have a better chance of reaching a wider audience. Every little bit helps, right?”
He rambled on, discussing the film’s production, the crew’s dedication, amusing on-set incidents, and his expectations for the release. Above all, he repeatedly assured Director Sang not to worry.
Ye Zhou had visited the ICU many times before, always limited to once daily for thirty minutes. Usually, a nurse would remind him when time was up.
Today was different. No one interrupted, no nurse or doctor came to remind him, and even the bedside timer had stopped.
“The prop cabinet suddenly fell over with a loud crash, and we all—”
Ye Zhou’s words were cut short by a sharp alarm from the nearby machine. He stared at the screeching device in confusion before frantically pressing the call button.
Outside, Sang Yu, sobbing uncontrollably, shook her head at him.
Ye Zhou collapsed onto the chair, his hand still positioned as if holding the director’s. The hand that had responded to his words moments ago now lay motionless.
Medical staff rushed in, forcing Ye Zhou out. He and Sang Yu sat silently on a bench outside the room.
In moments of profound grief, words fail. Ye Zhou lowered his head, watching as droplets fell onto the clean floor tiles.
At first, just a few drops, then faster and more frequent, until they formed a small puddle.
Time passed. Ye Zhou saw the medical staff exit the room. He instinctively wanted to ask, clinging to a sliver of hope despite knowing the likely outcome.
Sang Yu rushed forward before him, but the doctor’s slight head shake and barely audible sigh shattered Ye Zhou’s last hope.
Director Sang was more than a collaborator to Ye Zhou; he was a friend, mentor, and benefactor.
He taught Ye Zhou not just about filmmaking. During their collaboration, they often chatted for hours after wrapping up daily shoots.
Director Sang was both Ye Zhou’s teacher and a trusted confidant.
Even though he had anticipated the worst, the reality of the loss hit Ye Zhou hard.
He covered his eyes, trying to hold back tears. Taking deep breaths, he looked at the sobbing Sang Yu and said hoarsely, “It’s okay, it’s okay…”
When Jiang Tingyuan arrived, Ye Zhou had already helped Sang Yu with the necessary paperwork. Sang Yu was still weeping silently, while Ye Zhou, though slightly better, had swollen eyes.
Approaching Ye Zhou, Jiang Tingyuan gently kissed his reddened eyelids and whispered, “It’s alright to cry. I’m here for you.”
Ye Zhou had almost composed himself, but it’s strange how grief works. Sometimes, left alone, one can cope. But when someone asks, especially someone close and trusted, the sorrow intensifies.
“I’m fine,” Ye Zhou said, but buried his face in Mr. Jiang’s chest.
He didn’t speak or make a sound, appearing as if he was just resting. But Jiang Tingyuan felt the warmth and dampness on his chest.
He said nothing, holding Ye Zhou tightly, his large hand gently patting Ye Zhou’s back in silent comfort.
They left the hospital around 4 a.m. The night sky hadn’t yet lifted; it was still dark and heavy.
Work had been intense during filming. Post-production, editing, approvals, and distribution negotiations followed without break. It was grueling, but Ye Zhou never felt tired.
Now, sitting in Mr. Jiang’s car, Ye Zhou felt exhausted. It was a weariness born from within, as if all his energy had suddenly drained away, leaving only heaviness and fatigue.
Noticing his state, Jiang Tingyuan draped his suit jacket over Ye Zhou and quietly asked the driver to raise the temperature.
Ye Zhou had been pushing himself too hard lately. With Director Sang’s passing, the tension finally broke, and long-ignored exhaustion flooded in.
Mentally and physically drained, Ye Zhou fell into a silent sleep before reaching home.
When he next opened his eyes, Ye Zhou’s head throbbed. The scent of disinfectant filled his nose. He stared at the white ceiling for a long time before struggling to sit up.
His movement instantly woke up Jiang Tingyuan. Seeing Ye Zhou awake, Jiang Tingyuan felt his forehead, his tense expression easing slightly. Still, he held Ye Zhou down.
“Today’s IV isn’t finished yet. Be good,” Jiang Tingyuan said, pressing the call button.
Ye Zhou tried to speak but was startled by his own hoarse voice. “What… happened to me?”
Jiang Tingyuan checked the temperature of a glass of water before bringing it to Ye Zhou’s lips.
Ye Zhou drank, blinking, trying to read Mr. Jiang’s expression for clues. But Mr. Jiang’s face remained serious, as if he were reviewing important documents rather than helping Ye Zhou drink.
After finishing the water, Ye Zhou couldn’t help but hiccup.
Jiang Tingyuan set the glass down and finally spoke, “You developed a high fever shortly after we left the hospital. I had you admitted.”
Noticing Mr. Jiang’s bloodshot eyes, Ye Zhou felt guilty and said softly, “I’m sorry for troubling you, Jiang-ge.”
Jiang Tingyuan shook his head and, after a long silence, said, “Don’t do this again.”
His ‘this’ clearly referred to Ye Zhou’s previous relentless work ethic, which Ye Zhou understood well.
As his thoughts cleared, Ye Zhou immediately tried to get out of bed, but Mr. Jiang quickly pushed him back down.
“Jiang-ge, Director Sang…”
“Sang Yu has notified the Sang family. He left instructions not to hold a funeral. Once you’re better, I’ll take you to see him.”
“But…”
“No buts.”
“However…”
“No howevers.”
“I…”
“Lie down and cover up properly.”
“Oh…”
Raine: Please let me know if you see any mistakes. I cannot see clearly because of the tears.
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