Father Feng put away his notebook, then turned and noticed Chen Mu's backpack. It had clearly been used for years, its shoulder straps worn and frayed. A string of protective charms, probably obtained from a temple, hung from it on a faded red cord.
"Why don't you get a better backpack?" Father Feng asked.
"This one still works," Chen Mu said. "It's sturdy, too."
Had anyone else said that, Father Feng might not have thought much of it. But Chen Mu was Feng Yueshan's boyfriend. And what sort of person was his son? From the moment he was born, everything he had was top of the line. By the time he could run, he already knew to wear good shoes. If he got bored with the color of the laces, he wanted a whole new pair. He had barely ever carried his own backpack for more than a few minutes, let alone one with frayed straps. In his son's hands, it would have been replaced dozens of times by now.
And yet Feng Yueshan, of all people, had fallen for Chen Mu at first sight.
"What are you reading?" Father Feng asked again.
"Something for work," Chen Mu said. "A script. Filming starts next month."
Father Feng gave a low grunt of acknowledgment.
Chen Mu took the initiative to speak. "Not many people use notebooks these days."
"You think I'm an old fossil?"
"No," Chen Mu said. "I like them, too."
Father Feng didn't believe him at first, but then he caught sight of the notes Chen Mu had made on his script. Every stroke was straight and even, almost like printed type.
The older generation believed that handwriting reflected character, and Father Feng was no exception.
Handwriting grew rusty without practice, but Chen Mu's neat script held a touch