Article 017 has been published.

Xia’s manuscript was indeed accepted, and the reason was simple: this was the era when youth literature was on the rise. The unique writing style of the post-80s generation reigned supreme—sometimes mournful, sometimes delicately melancholy, sometimes indulging in lyrical lamentation. Yet, no matter the tone, their writing shared a common trait: refinement.

Yes, refinement.

Whether in word choice or sentence structure, it could be described with an ancient poetic line: “Blossoms flutter freely, light as dreams; endless drizzle, fine as sorrow.” There was Guo Jingming’s “Youth is a radiant sadness,” Annie Baby’s “Forty-five Degrees of Sorrow,” and even the rise of the so-called “beautiful woman writer” as a profession. Writers had learned the art of self-promotion.

After careful consideration and selection, Lin Xia submitted all her pieces to “Fine Rain.”

“Fine Rain” magazine was first published in 2000, from the outset taking a youthful direction, targeting readers aged 15 to 20, primarily adolescent girls. In 2005, it underwent a transformation, shifting to a women’s periodical centered on modern urban fashion and romance. Its new audience was defined as sensitive, stylish urban white-collar women aged 15 to 25, with a passion for captivating love stories.

It must be said that “Fine Rain” improved significantly after its transformation. Now, among magazines, it could barely be counted among the top ten. Lin Xia chose it largely because, after its reinvention, it quickly rose into the top three youth magazines. Most importantly, even now, “Fine Rain” offered some of the most generous payments among similar publications.

Currently, “Fine Rain” paid 50 to 120 yuan per thousand characters, and two years later, the rate would rise to 150 to 200 yuan per thousand—an enormous temptation for the cash-strapped Lin Xia. Of her three submissions, the shortest, “Cinderella’s Glass Slipper,” was 4,000 characters long, which, even at the lowest rate, would earn her 200 yuan. For Lin Xia, who only had ten yuan in private funds, this was a fortune.

Within a week of submitting her work, Lin Xia received a reply. It was from Meow Meow, an editor of the “Tender Forest” column at “Fine Rain.” The gist of the letter was that all three articles were excellent, though a bit immature in places; the magazine intended to make some minor edits before publishing them.

The fiction section of “Fine Rain” contained eight columns: Tender Forest, Painful Youth, Floating City, Blossoms Through the Years, Waters of Time, Language of Love’s Flowers, Swordsman’s Romance, and Innocent Era.

“Cinderella’s Glass Slipper,” with its bright, fresh, and pure style that radiated warmth and youth, would be published in the “Tender Forest” section.

The intense entanglements and desperate love in “Waters of Time” would naturally find its place in the “Waters of Time” column. As for “Girl, Don’t Cry,” a piece chronicling the pain of adolescence with a gentle, hopeful tone meant to warm young hearts, there was another plan altogether.

Meow Meow mentioned in the letter that the chief editor of “Fine Rain” greatly admired “Girl, Don’t Cry.” However, since Lin Xia was a newcomer and lacked reputation, the magazine could not risk its credibility. They hoped she would complete the manuscript as soon as possible and send it in by mail or fax.

At the end of the letter, Meow Meow praised Lin Xia, saying that as long as “Girl, Don’t Cry” maintained its current standard, serialization was certain—there was even the possibility of publication as a book.

Reading the word “publication,” Lin Xia was elated. Publication—wasn’t that every aspiring writer’s greatest dream?

Inspired, Lin Xia felt a surge of motivation. Glancing at the biology teacher droning on at the podium, for the first time, she found attending class a bothersome chore.

After sitting for about ten minutes, the itch in her heart became unbearable. Lin Xia took out her manuscript paper and began writing the second part of “Girl, Don’t Cry.”

At that time, “Fine Rain” was still a semi-monthly. It wouldn’t become a monthly until two years later. Ten days later, Lin Xia’s words were transformed into print, and half a month after that, her payment arrived by envelope—a full 1,000 yuan.

For Lin Xia, this was truly a small fortune.

The “Fine Rain” editorial office had purchased two of her pieces at a rate of 100 yuan per thousand characters, which made Lin Xia feel both thrilled and anxious.

Along with her windfall came a handwritten letter from editor Meow Meow. The letter asked if she had continued “Girl, Don’t Cry,” and requested she send in the next installment since the chief editor valued it highly. It also inquired whether she had written any other short stories, as the current “Tender Forest” column had received excellent reader feedback, and invited Lin Xia to write for the next issue as well.

Even though Lin Xia had lived thirty years in her previous life, she was still overwhelmed with excitement at this moment.

This wasn’t just one thousand yuan—in Lin Xia’s eyes, it was her future. Her dream was not misguided; her literary ambitions could indeed be realized, especially when her parents’ combined monthly salary was only three thousand yuan.

She could now earn a thousand yuan with her own hands—a thousand yuan!

Lin Xia was bursting with emotion. She hurriedly packed the thrice-edited manuscripts of “Girl, Don’t Cry” and “Farewell to Summer” into an envelope, bought stamps, and mailed them.

With the first paycheck of her life in hand, Lin Xia opened an account at the post office. In their town, the rules weren’t strict; you didn’t have to wait until you were eighteen to open an account.

In her previous life, Lin Xia hadn’t known this. It wasn’t until high school, in a conversation with Lin Hui about how others already had bank accounts, that she realized she didn’t even know how to open one.

Lin Hui told her that he’d opened his own account in sixth grade, and that he’d even hidden ten yuan in it.

Lin Xia was astonished and pressed for more details, but unfortunately, he had already lost the card and forgotten the password.

If it hadn’t been for that idle chat, Lin Xia would never have known that you didn’t have to be eighteen to open an account.

She deposited 100 yuan, then, clutching the remaining 900 yuan, briskly headed home.

School had ended nearly half an hour ago; if she didn’t hurry, her mother would surely interrogate her again.

Sure enough, as soon as she stepped inside, her mother’s voice boomed from the dining room, “Why are you home so late? What were you doing? Hey, child, I haven’t even finished talking and you’re already rushing upstairs! Come down and eat, we’ve all been waiting for you!”

“Mom, you guys start first—I have to use the bathroom. I’ll come down to eat in a bit.” Calling down from the staircase, Lin Xia dashed to her room.

Where should she hide the money? Under the bed in the cookie tin, or in the wardrobe?

She paced her small room twice, then snapped her fingers. Of course, she had that. With a thought, she vanished from her room and appeared in her private space.

In one corner of that space sat an apple. Lin Xia picked it up and examined it carefully—it looked just as fresh as when she’d brought it in.

But it had been there for nearly half a month without any sign of decay. So Lin Xia had no worries about money spoiling or rotting in there.

As for someone discovering or stealing it, that was simply impossible.

With that, Lin Xia finally appreciated the benefits of this unique space. It was the ultimate portable, secure, natural preservation storage box—essential for home and travel, and no one else could ever steal from it!

Delighted, Lin Xia emerged from the space, humming a tune as she went downstairs with 300 yuan in hand, her heart brimming with joy.