From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

The utility room wasn't large, and after being crammed full of items, it felt even more cramped.

However.

Anson didn't mind. He calmly and serenely sat at the piano, shoulders open, back straight, a natural ease exuding from his entire being. Even in this tiny space, he seemed to perceive the grandeur and vastness of the universe.

To be fair, the performance wasn't perfect or smooth—

Anson's piano skills were clearly inferior to his guitar skills; it was obvious he wasn't proficient. The piano itself probably needed to be retuned, so the melody flowing from his fingertips was often interrupted, occasionally with jarring deviations. The creative process was full of exploration and discovery.

But!

This scene had the immediate feeling of watching a top-tier performance rehearsal at Carnegie Hall, quietly drawing the audience in to feel the warmth and color of the melody.

Miles was stunned, completely stunned, by the shock and the impact—

He himself came from a classical symphony orchestra and understood arrangement and collaboration all too well. Relying solely on the performance of one instrument, the melody was inevitably thin, unable to feel the three-dimensionality and layers of the song. This was an objective fact.

Precisely because of this, street performers who relied solely on one instrument rarely created a grand effect. A guitar or an electronic keyboard was often more suitable for a fresh, melancholic style.

Logically speaking, Anson's performance at this moment should have been the same.

However!

Miles could feel the layers of emotion in the clear and bright piano keys:

Sadness, bitterness, wistfulness, loneliness, grandeur, magnificence, serenity, heroism.

Different emotions intertwined in a complex way, surging into his heart, rippling on his tongue, such a tender and gentle performance, such a graceful and light melody, yet splashing out a brilliant scene in the depths of his soul.

Involuntarily, Miles could "see" the scene of Anson stepping onto the music festival stage, seeing thousands upon thousands of fans dancing and singing wildly in the melody, seeing the grandeur of the Carnegie Hall Symphony Orchestra performing, seeing Anson bathed in the spotlight, able to fly with open arms.

Then.

A star lit up in a pitch-black night sky. The faint light was not enough to dispel the darkness. Just as the night seemed ready to devour the starlight again, a jolt ran through him in the penetrating sound of the piano keys, and the stars in the depths of his mind spread out like wildfire.

Whoosh!

The night sky was like daylight, the whole world plunged into a brilliant and magnificent scene, the world spinning, dizzying, the heart freed from its restraints and began to fly.

Everything happened in the small utility room before him, the trembling and shock coursing from his feet to his head like electricity, bathing in a magnificent scene—

This was incredible.

Then, Anson began to hum softly.

“Ooh ooh ooh, oh oh; ooh ooh ooh, oh oh.”

Sorrowful but not grieving, a subtle bitterness bloomed on the tip of his tongue, and the inspiration in Miles's mind also bloomed like fireworks.

He couldn't help but start to conceive when the cello should cut in, how the drums and other instruments should be arranged to expand the performance around the piano's range.

Little by little, those mists, those confusions, all dissipated.

Lily stared at Anson, and Connor also stared at Anson—

One person, one piano.

That was all. Anson hummed the melody like a wandering poet, the tender melody was very moving, but compared to "Awake Me" and "Hero," it seemed much thinner.

Was this normal?

The confusion had just sprouted in her mind, and then she was dragged back into the world of music again.

Anson opened his mouth again, this time not humming, but singing complete lyrics. When the melody met the lyrics, when the lyrics collided with the melody, a chemical reaction was born.

“I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word. Now in the morning I sleep alone, sweep the streets I used to own.

I used to roll the dice, feel the fear in my enemy's eyes. Listened as the crowd would sing: 'Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!' One minute I held the key, next the walls were closed on me. And I discovered that my castles stand upon pillars of salt and sand.” (Note 1)

Just one verse.

However, the power bursting out of the plain lyrics was striking, the grandeur of time, the weight of history, and the vicissitudes of life were condensed in it, eventually evolving into a free and unrestrained spirit, and the color of the music immediately brightened.

People who like music know that having a naturally gifted voice already puts you ahead of the starting line, and singers who use their voices to give color to music can easily leave a deep impression.

But singers whose music itself has color are truly rare, one in ten thousand, one in ten years. Even if their voice is not so prominent, the music itself is their label, and such people can often leave a strong mark in the river of history.

From "Awake Me" to "Hero," Lily had this idea but couldn't be 100% sure, but now, she could finally confirm her idea:

Anson was the kind of musician whose music had color.

Notes were their personality and edges, their label and existence—

No one could replicate it.

At this moment, the inspiration in their minds was constantly bursting out. Other things didn't seem so important. This moment, dedicated to music and only to music, gave their lives meaning.

The perseverance and running around these years, the unspoken stubbornness and pride, were all released at this moment, once again awakening the enthusiasm and excitement in the depths of their souls. The seed called "dream" sprouted and grew vigorously.

“Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing, Roman cavalry choirs are singing. Be my mirror my sword and shield, my missionaries in a foreign field. For some reason I can't explain, once you'd gone there was never, never an honest word. And that was when I ruled the world.

It was the wicked and wild wind blew down the doors to let me in. Shattered windows and the sound of drums, people couldn't believe what I'd become. Revolutionaries wait for my head on a silver plate. Just a puppet on a lonely string. Oh who would ever want to be king?

Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing, Roman cavalry choirs are singing. Be my mirror my sword and shield, my missionaries in a foreign field. For some reason I can't explain, I know Saint Peter won't call my name. Never an honest word, but that was when I ruled the world.”

Involuntarily, their hearts surged, their blood boiled.

Note 1: Viva la vida — Coldplay