The Reader in the Story (Part 2)

Moonlight spilled through the glass window onto the workbench, gilding the crystalline salt grains with a layer of silver.

Ye Yan was attempting to create a batch of Salt Trace.

He did not rush to contact Lestrade; instead, he was making preparations for the investigation ahead of time.

As Holmes had said, the key to this case lay in finding evidence that had been deliberately hidden, so the formula for Salt Trace he had just acquired would undoubtedly prove invaluable.

"This is the perfect opportunity to introduce Salt Trace to Scotland Yard." Ye Yan whispered to himself, picking up a glass rod and a beaker. "I believe the detectives will be very interested in a tool capable of tracking mysterious trails."

Under the moonlight, he poured purified water, which had been kept in the dark for seven days, into a crucible and added freshly ground sea salt.

As the flames flickered, the liquid began to churn, and Ye Yan softly chanted an ancient incantation.

Amidst the rising steam, a layer of pure white crystals gradually precipitated at the bottom of the beaker, interspersed with a few black particles.

Those were not impurities, but the Salt Trace in the process of formation.

Ye Yan leaned in to observe closely.

Those black particles were mixed with some genuine impurities, while others emitted a faint, inconspicuous glow that resonated subtly with his Compass.

It was Salt Trace.

Ye Yan carefully used silver tweezers to separate them, and by the time he finished, he had obtained an entire small vial of Salt Trace shimmering with a mysterious luster.

"The separation process is actually more draining than the creation itself."

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "It seems the plan for mass production will have to be shelved. Beyond the incantation steps, I didn't expect that identifying the Salt Trace would require so much additional ability."

The moon outside the window remained bright, and Ye Yan estimated his expenditure of mental energy.

"I can make at most two more batches tonight." He rubbed his temples. "Otherwise, I'll have a headache all day tomorrow."

The next day.

Four small glass vials were neatly arranged on the workbench, filled with the Salt Trace produced overnight.

A satisfied smile appeared on Ye Yan's weary face.

He had thought three vials would be his limit, but with the accumulation of experience, his efficiency had exceeded expectations, leaving him with enough energy to produce a fourth.

Carrying the four vials of Salt Trace, Ye Yan returned home.

As he passed the mailbox upon entering, he opened it and found a letter lying quietly inside.

Ye Yan took out the letter and looked at the signature on the envelope.

"A letter from Joseph?"

He had sent a letter to France over half a month ago, but had yet to receive a reply.

Much like The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Maupassant's My Uncle Jules was also narrated through the perspective of a character in the story.

That character was Joseph Darmans.

Ye Yan carried the letter into the house.

Come to think of it, they were related by blood; if they were to meet, the boy would have to call him brother.

He wondered what the boy would say in the letter.

Ten minutes later, Ye Yan finished reading the entire letter with the help of a French dictionary.

His brows furrowed slightly.

The letter was likely written by Joseph Darmans himself; the immature handwriting clearly belonged to a child.

However, the content was almost certainly guided by someone else. The entire letter was peppered with probing questions and flattery, eventually even urging him to continue sending money.

"It seems Joseph Darmans is not living well."

Ye Yan had anticipated this, which was why he had tucked some money into the letter he sent.

Although Philip's scheme to drive the original owner to suicide had not been exposed, his crimes of smuggling contraband had been verified, and the government had confiscated his entire inheritance.

Thinking of the original owner's plight after his parents died.

Unless Joseph Darmans could find a kind soul to take him in, his life was likely even worse than the original owner's had been.

After some thought, Ye Yan decided to send another letter.

Paris, France.

Joseph Darmans no longer felt sad about his displacement; he had gradually grown accustomed to a life of being passed around like baggage by his relatives.

His luggage was sparse.

A tattered suitcase containing a few shirts and trousers, school textbooks, a Diary, and a small toy horse.

It was a tenth-birthday gift from his mother.

Every time he was sent to a new relative's home, Joseph would clutch that little horse tightly, for only then did he feel as though he had grasped something that truly belonged to him.

"Joseph, you will stay here for the time being."

Aunt's icy voice echoed through the cramped storage room as she impatiently tapped her fingers against the doorframe. "Remember, you have to earn your keep. We aren't a charity."

He nodded, silently picking up the broom.

His two older sisters were already married, and whenever he happened to run into them at family gatherings, they would always half-hide their faces behind fans, their voices lowered just enough to be audible to him.

"He's so thin and dirty, like a little rat," the eldest sister sneered. "I really don't understand why we have to take turns housing him."

"Who else is going to do it? He is our own brother," the second sister said, fiddling with her gloves nonchalantly. "Besides, in a few years, we can just pack him off to be an apprentice."

When his sisters spoke of him, it was as if he were merely a piece of cumbersome old furniture rather than a brother bound by blood.

Life at school was even worse.

The children of the wealthy wore fine wool coats and were picked up by their parents, while he wore an old jacket with sleeves so short his wrists were exposed, walking to and from school alone every day.

His old friends were no longer in Paris.

His new classmates called him "little beggar" or sometimes "country bumpkin," stuffing dead mice into his schoolbag or tripping him whenever he wasn't looking.

When the teachers saw it, they merely frowned.

A poor child without parents, a transfer student from a small town—he wasn't worth their trouble.

Joseph learned to walk with his head down and learned to grit his teeth and stay silent when he was beaten.

At night, curled up on the mattress in his cubicle, he listened to the mice rustling in the corners and counted the cracks in the ceiling, longing for the day he could grow up quickly.

He missed his life in Le Havre.

Although the winters in Le Havre were cold, the avoidant gazes he faced now were more terrifying than any freezing wind; Paris offered nothing but a stomach that was never full and a "home" that would never belong to him.

Joseph felt very afraid.

He worried that before he could grow up, he would be treated like Uncle Jules—deemed a burden by the family, tossed onto a ship bound for America, and never able to return home again.

Because of this, he remained in a state of constant anxiety until that afternoon that changed his fate.

Aunt opened a letter from London, and a stack of banknotes slid out from within.

[My dear Joseph, my brother:

Please allow me to address you so affectionately, for I am indeed your brother by blood.

My name is Ye Yan, though you may also call me Newman Easton. I have lived overseas for some time, but I recently came to England regarding matters concerning Aunt's family and learned of your situation...]

The letter briefly explained the sender's identity and his purpose for writing.

Aunt was dancing with excitement.

She clutched the stack of banknotes from the letter, wetting her thumb with the tip of her tongue to count them carefully, one by one, while the letter itself was crumpled into a ball and tossed into the trash.

Only after everyone had left did Joseph sneak over to retrieve the crumpled letter.

Under the kerosene lamp, he read it over and over again.

The letter mentioned that his "brother" had returned from overseas. Joseph didn't know how far away overseas was, but it was certainly very far from France.

The sentences in the letter contained many grammatical errors, as if they had been pieced together by looking up words in a dictionary—stiff and awkward.

Yet, this made Joseph feel very happy.

He knew this must have been written by the hand of that brother he had never met. At the thought, a long-lost joy spread through Joseph's heart.

Carrying this fantasy, he drifted into a sweet dream.

In the dream, he returned to Le Havre. Golden sunlight spilled over the fine, soft sand, his sisters chased the waves with their skirts lifted, and his parents sat nearby, watching him with smiles.

The sea breeze brushed gently against his cheeks, carrying a salty, familiar scent.

In that hazy light, he vaguely saw a blurred figure smiling at him, a smile so warm it made him want to draw closer.

But good dreams are always short-lived.

The next day, Aunt forced him to write a reply according to the adults' wishes: "Joseph, my dear Joseph, come, sit here and write a reply to your brother."

Aunt kissed Joseph's cheek as affectionately as if he were her own son, but he only felt a deep sense of discomfort.

When he heard what they wanted him to write, that discomfort intensified.

It became so strong that it almost made him vomit.

"I don't want to write it."

For the first time, Joseph defied his aunt.

He truly wanted to write a sincere letter to the brother who cared about him, a letter filled with his joy, his gratitude, and his hope to meet him one day.

Not these demands filled with calculation.

"Joseph, don't forget who is providing your food and drink! I am doing this for your own good!"

"But this isn't right."

"What isn't right about it?"

"He is my brother. Writing to him shouldn't be about demanding money; those things aren't important."

"No, what you think is unimportant is actually the most important thing, Joseph. You are still young and don't understand these things. Be obedient; doing as we adults ask is enough."

Joseph shook his head again.

He never did things he believed to be wrong.

Yet in the end, he yielded—not out of fear of going hungry, but out of the worry of losing that little wooden horse.

The letter was sent out.

From that day on, Joseph checked the mailbox every time he went to or returned from school, looking for a letter from London.

He was both expectant and terrified of receiving a reply.

Joseph feared seeing words of disappointment in the letter, but he feared being abandoned once again even more.

Half a month passed.

No more letters from London appeared in the mailbox.

And his aunt gradually returned to her old self, no longer adding an extra fried egg to his breakfast.

Joseph read that letter every night.

He finally understood why his parents had held such deep expectations for a ten-year-old letter back then.

But he was not his parents.

Joseph secretly swore that when he grew up, he would definitely go to London and personally hand the letter he truly wanted to write to the person who was willing to call him "little brother."

He took out his suitcase and rummaged through it to find his Diary.

The first page of the Diary was about Uncle Jules; those were the words he had written when he first felt doubt about his parents' actions and his heart was filled with confusion.

And this time, he intended to write the letter he had originally meant for his brother Ye Yan.

[Dearest Ye Yan, my brother:

I hope I have not used the wrong form of address for you, because the first name you used to introduce yourself in your letter was Ye Yan. I boldly guess that you must prefer others to call you "Ye Yan" rather than the name Newman Easton...]

Under the lamplight, the boy's pen nib glided across the paper, every letter poured with his most sincere emotions.

When he wrote his own signature at the end of the letter, Joseph revealed a happy smile. He curled up on his small bed, hugging the Diary as he drifted into a dream.

That night, he had a beautiful dream once again.

And then, the dream came true!

As the morning sun just climbed onto the window, a series of urgent knocks woke Joseph up.

"Joseph, wake up quickly! Your brother has sent someone to see you!" his aunt shouted, "Hurry up and tidy yourself up!"

Joseph forgot to even put on his shoes, opening the door in pleasant surprise.

He saw a well-dressed gentleman sitting on the sofa, chatting cordially with his aunt.

"Sir, are you really sent by my brother to visit me?" Joseph's eyes were wide, his voice trembling slightly from excitement.

Just after saying that, he hurriedly explained, "No, I am not doubting your identity; I am just feeling very happy."

The visitor took off his top hat, revealing a gentle smile: "It is absolutely true, little sir. Your brother, Mr. Ye Yan, entrusted me to see how you are doing."

Hearing the other party pronounce that name so accurately, Joseph completely believed his words.

In fact, he himself had practiced for an entire afternoon just to be able to say the name "Ye Yan" that standardly.

Suddenly, as if remembering something important, Joseph's eyes lit up: "Please wait a moment!"

He turned and ran toward the storage room, his bare feet making rapid pattering sounds on the floor.

In the cramped storage room, Joseph carefully opened the old leather suitcase that had always accompanied him and took out the Diary that recorded his thoughts and hopes.

When the boy appeared at the doorway again, his expression had become exceptionally solemn.

"Sir." Joseph took a deep breath and solemnly handed the Diary to the visitor, his voice filled with anticipation: "Please take this to my brother; it contains the words I want to say to him."

The visitor bowed slightly.

"Rest assured, little sir." His fingers gently smoothed the worn corners of the Diary: "I will certainly deliver it to your brother safe and sound."

Joseph was about to offer his thanks when he suddenly realized he had not yet asked for the man's name.

"I apologize, it was rude of me."

Realizing his impetuousness, a blush crept onto his cheeks as he awkwardly adjusted his sleeves, which were too short: "Kind sir, may I ask... may I ask what your name is?"

The visitor placed the Diary into his inner pocket and put his well-crafted top hat back on, covering his slicked-back hair: "James Smith."

He introduced himself: "A friend of your brother."