The studio was very quiet.

Only the crisp sound of a mechanical keyboard clicking.

During this period,

Literary debates, Ye Xi's zither music, Yan Fang's stubbornness,

Even my mom's plate of sweet and sour pork ribs,

All of this has subtly permeated the very fabric of this entirely new ending.

"The Ferryman" should not just be a fairy tale about death.

It is also a metaphor about "returning".

If Tristan is the soul that forever ferries others across,

So Dylan was the spark that awakened the ferryman's self-awareness.

Lin Que's fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed the final chapter.

In the document, Dylan made that crazy decision.

She wants to go back.

She didn't want to stay in that safe house where there was no pain but also no turmoil.

She must return to that desolate wasteland filled with evil spirits and danger to find her ferryman.

Because love is a stronger obsession than death.

Dylan pushed open the door to the present world.

A biting wind howled, the chill characteristic of the Scottish Highlands.

But this time, she was no longer afraid.

She saw that figure.

Tristan sat on the edge of the wasteland, the once indifferent ferryman who only knew how to carry out missions.

At this moment, I feel like an abandoned child.

Why did you come back?

"Tristan asked, his voice trembling."

"Because I don't want to go to heaven alone."

Dylan answered.

"Without you there, it would be no different from hell."

Lin Que stopped, picked up the cold water next to him, and took a sip.

He recalled Ye Xi's piano playing in the music room, where she said, "It's all cursing."

The so-called paradise,

For Ye Xi, it was a perfect world filled with flowers, applause, and the Steinway music room.

It's safe and prestigious there, but there's no warmth or freedom.

What she might want is simply that desolate wasteland.

She found someone like her who could understand her random piano playing.

Lin Que continued striking.

The ending is no longer confined to that desolate wasteland.

Dylan, holding Tristan's hand, walked back step by step against the direction in which all the souls were moving.

They passed through the howls of evil spirits and through the fear in their hearts.

Finally, they returned to the scene of the car accident.

The light was blinding, and the sirens were piercing.

Dylan opened his eyes, his body wracked with pain—the pain of being alive.

She lay in the rubble, surrounded by anxious rescuers.

She turned her head and saw the boy in the trench coat not far away.

He stood blankly in the crowd, looking at his own hands.

He was no longer a soul; he had a shadow and warmth.

He crossed the boundary between life and death for the sake of a soul.

He abandoned his eternal duty and became a mortal.

Tristan looked up.

His gaze cut through the noisy crowd and landed precisely on Dylan.

At that moment, all the wasteland vanished.

"Hi."

He said.

"Hi."

She smiled, and tears streamed down her face.

After typing the final period, Lin Que leaned back.

Leaning back in his chair, he let out a long sigh of relief.

it's over.

A true ferry service is not just about getting people to the other side.

Rather, it gives people the courage to open their eyes even when they are surrounded by ruins and covered in wounds.

Say "Hi" to this messed-up world.

Like Ye Xi, even when bound by rules,

They still dared to create their own rhapsody on the Steinway.

Lin Que checked for typos, then opened his email and clicked "Create New Email".

Recipients: Xinchao-Wang De'an; Xinchao-Xu Lan.

Attachment: The final chapter of "The Ferryman".doc

He wrote only one line in the email body:

The wasteland has come to an end; it's time for the ferryman to disembark. This is the end, and also the beginning.

Click to send.

Lin Que closed his laptop and stretched.

The wind outside the window seemed to pick up a bit more.

This wind passed through Jiangcheng from the north.

It blew southwards, reaching Nanjing, more than 300 kilometers away.

...

Winter in Nanjing is different from that in the river city.

It always carries a damp, cold chill, as if it can seep into one's bones.

South of the city, the Yihe Road mansion district.

This is the best-preserved Republican-era architectural complex in Nanjing.

The branches of the sycamore trees intertwine into a net under the dim streetlights, isolating the noise from the outside world.

In a small Western-style building with blue bricks and gray tiles, the light in the study was still on.

Gu Changfeng, wearing a thick Zhongshan suit, sat at his mahogany desk.

Holding a steaming cup of Yuhua tea in my hands.

Several photocopies were spread out on the desk, covered with dense annotations in red pen.

Those were all the articles Lin Que had ever written.

From "Fireflies" to "Coco"

Even the speech that recently caused a sensation on the forum.

"Ring ring—"