From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Blaire quietly watched Anson, quietly—

Just like that, little by little, she fell.

That voice, like warm, solid ice, sparkled with brilliance.

Approaching it cautiously, one could discover the countless scars hidden beneath its cold and stern exterior, so fragile and so weathered.

However, it still didn't compromise, didn't surrender, and continued to sing with abandon.

Her vision blurred in an instant.

However, Blaire didn't wipe her eyes, allowing the tears to fall freely as she watched Anson intently, letting her thoughts run wild in the melody.

Anson was smiling, smiling with bright eyes and his head held high, displaying the resilience and strength to face all storms, slowly painting a picture of ordinary life—

“Having a stable job to support my family, maybe I’ll buy some new guitar strings, maybe we’ll go out together on the weekend.” (Note 1)

No need to be a hero, no need to be a big shot, simple everyday life can also find trivial happiness.

In fact, happiness is often not grand and magnificent, but precisely those everyday things within reach, silently making every minute and second fulfilling.

They are always searching bitterly, losing their way unintentionally as they walk, unable to find happiness, unable to find themselves, and unable to find the way back; but only when they wash away the superficiality and the lights are dim do they realize that happiness has always been at hand, within reach, just needing to clench their fingertips.

Then.

Anson looked at Lily, and Lily hummed the lower part, joining Anson in a duet.

“We can whisper…”

Lily's fingertips were already on the black and white keys, ready, but she didn't play, stopping to listen quietly to Anson's solo.

“Telling secrets of an American dream, babies need someone to hold them, but I'm a baby too.”

Bass, enters.

Keyboard, lingering.

The performance slowly joins in, but not much, just a few scattered notes embellishing, like starlight, traveling through Anson's calm and telling voice.

Incredibly, the deep bass notes completely support the weight of Anson's singing, the relief in the vicissitudes, the sigh in the wandering, the sadness in the heat, turning into a breeze, slowly lingering around Anson.

“So let me go.”

“I don’t want to be your hero, I don’t want to be anything big, I just want to live earnestly like an ordinary person.”

Anson turned to look at Miles—

A exchange of glances.

Miles understood, not only Anson's signal, but also the complexity in Anson's eyes.

They thought that only they had experienced ups and downs, only they were scarred, only they were wandering outside the door of their dreams; but in fact, Anson was the same.

What he craved was not success and fame, not to be remembered in history, but a truly fulfilling and happy life, grasping every day with his feet on the ground.

Miles understood, he couldn't be clearer.

Even if he could step onto the stage of Carnegie Hall as a cellist, so what?

He wasn't happy.

In the eyes of others, that was a dream opportunity, a symbol of success, anyone with a little bit of rationality would know how to choose, he should stand on the stage of Carnegie Hall and live step by step, wearing a mask, pretending to be a stranger he didn't even recognize for the rest of his life; but he didn't want to.

He wanted to stand on the stage with Anson and Lily Connor, even if it was just on the street, even if it was just barely making a living, even if he still failed in the end and turned around and left in disgrace—

The preciousness of a dream is not because it can be realized, but because the journey of pursuing the dream truly interprets the meaning of life.

A smile also quietly climbed up the corner of Miles's eye, and he pulled the bow again—

The melodious and graceful cello string sound rang out.

The low-frequency string sounds of the cello and bass were intertwined again.

All along, according to traditional concepts, the cello and bass are naturally incompatible, the two instruments are so similar and so different, the melodies played are often difficult to match, and may even devour each other's texture, eventually evolving into a dud.

Not that it's terrible, it's just… mediocre.

However, that was not the case in front of them.

Connor looked at Miles, Miles looked at Connor, with a exchange of glances, the deep and gentle string sounds intertwined and entangled with each other, the matching of frequencies collided with a subtle vibration, perfectly setting off the coolness and color in Anson's singing, and in an instant, the world quieted down.

Involuntarily, they completely quieted down, listening attentively to Anson's singing, the simple and unadorned narrative, hitting the softness of the soul fiercely.

“At your masquerade, I don’t wanna be a part you’re showing off.”

Uncontrollably, Miles's heart trembled slightly:

Even if that masquerade was so dazzling, so grand, and so prosperous, it was not their masquerade; even if those successes were so grand, so beautiful, and so brilliant, they were not their lives after all.

Even if he walked alone, even if he was covered in wounds, even if no one knew, he still wanted to continue moving forward, bravely pursuing an ethereal dream in his own life.

His wrist, so affectionate and so intoxicated, the melody flying above the strings carried the temperature and power of the soul.

His eyes, looking at Connor.

The smiles on the corners of the two people's mouths rose together, and in that short moment, they seemed to recognize each other again.

Happiness surged from the bottom of their hearts.

Then, Miles looked at Lily again, and finally his gaze fell on Anson, and even he himself could realize that a smile was blooming at the corner of his mouth—

Keyboard. Bass. Cello. Guitar.

Different instruments all played together, the notes collided together, intertwined and reflected each other, different textures naturally blended together to produce a chemical reaction, evolving into a pure and brilliant grandeur, under the traction of Anson's singing, step by step towards the climax.

“Everyone should get a chance to shine.”

A pause.

The performance ushered in a rest, in the short silence, the four people's eyes collided in the air, unanimously capturing traces of tears in each other's eyes, but the smiles bloomed perfectly.

This is the charm of performance.

Temporarily forgetting the existence of the audience, temporarily forgetting the worry of making mistakes, focusing one hundred percent on the instrument, carefully entrusting their soul fragments to the instrument, presenting the temperature and color of emotions between the performances, and feeling the slight trembling of each other's souls through the melody.

A kind of communication, a kind of collision, and also a kind of response.

The heart, trembling slightly, a sense of happiness rushed from the soles of the feet all the way to the top of the head, the blood burned fiercely.

Until—

Ching.

Connor, the first to pluck the bass strings.

Then.

The instruments, fully played.

In the front, it was always accompaniment, without stealing Anson's limelight, until this moment did it truly unleash its full power, and finally, the unique charm of the band in front of them was finally fully displayed, shining again.

Note 1: Hero—Family-of-the-year