The author, clutching both bread and a manuscript, walked dejectedly along the road home.
The wind grew stronger, a rumble echoed across the sky, and soon after, a torrential downpour followed.
The author had no choice but to run under the eaves to take shelter from the rain.
On either side of him were people—homeless drifters, clothed in rags and barely covered. Behind him, someone who hadn’t awakened yet snored. Of all of them, he was the only one whose attire was still relatively clean and tidy. These were the clothes he’d specifically changed into to meet the editor-in-chief.
The rain drizzled on, and he stood quietly, aimlessly watching the raindrops splash into puddles, occasionally glancing down at the bread in his arms, then at the people around him.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t even had breakfast yet. All he ate was a few crumbs of bread, and now it was already noon.
Finding a discreet corner, he carefully unwrapped a bit of wax paper and, shielding himself from view, began nibbling at the bread. He was terribly afraid the nearby drifters might notice.
"Big brother, I’m so hungry..."
A voice startled him, and he instinctively clutched the bread tightly to his chest.
Turning around, he saw a child clad in tattered clothing and barefoot, gazing at him with wide, imploring eyes.
"Big brother, I’m so hungry..."
Out of options, the author glanced around and pulled the child into a small alley, finding a secluded spot. He broke off a small piece of bread and handed it to the child.
The child squatted in the corner, devouring it ravenously. In between hurried bites, the child asked, "Big brother, what do you do?"
The author leaned against a nearby door frame, silently standing there, tilting his head back to watch the raindrops falling from the sky.
"No, just a down-and-out author."
In no time, the child had finished the bread. After wiping his mouth, he looked at the author again with those longing eyes and asked, "Can I come find you for food again tomorrow?"
"No," the author shook his head. "Once this loaf is gone, I’ll be as hungry as you. I won’t have anything to give you."
"Why? Aren’t you an author?"
"Because my manuscript hasn’t sold... And even if it does sell, it won’t make much difference. A loaf of bread costs ten silver coins... The royalties won’t keep me fed for long."
"It hasn’t sold because it’s bad, right?"
"No. It’s written very well. I think it might be the best book I’ve ever written. It’s fantastic."
"Then why hasn’t it sold?"
"Because the editor-in-chief is blind. If this book were published, people would love it, and it would make a lot of money. But he just refuses to accept it and has wasted all my effort."
"Then why don’t you publish it yourself?"
"Publish it myself?" The author froze for a moment.
"Can’t you self-publish?" the child asked.
"Well... it seems I could." The author’s thoughts raced, and suddenly he was filled with excitement. "Yes! Why don’t I self-publish? That way, I wouldn’t just have to rely on royalties! Hahaha, thank you! Thank you so much!"
Overcome with excitement, the author scooped up the child and gave them a big kiss on the forehead. Wrapping his precious manuscript in his clothes, he dashed into the rain, running off. Halfway there, he turned back and shouted to the child, "If I make it big, I’ll come back and buy you bread!"
"Okay! I’ll be waiting!" the child replied with joy.
About an hour later, the author reappeared in Little Mustache’s office, slamming his house deed onto the editor-in-chief’s desk.
"I’m using my house as collateral to fund my own publication!"
"A house isn’t worth much these days," the editor-in-chief said skeptically, picking up the deed and flipping through it. Pausing to think, he then smiled. "But it should be enough to publish one book. If it earns money, you take eighty percent and I take twenty. If it loses money, I won’t be responsible for a single cent—everything’s on you. How about it?"
Across the desk, the two men shook hands.