Chapter 35
The small room remained dark. As dusk fell, slivers of sunlight filtered through the tiny window, casting uneven patches of light and shadow on the floor.
“Not in a good mood?”
The person on the other end of the line was silent for a moment before asking softly. The faint electrical noise mixed with the evening breeze, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper—yet, if listened to carefully, it carried a gentle warmth.
Fang Huai didn’t respond immediately. He placed the outdated phone with its blue-lit screen beside him, the volume turned up to the max.
This was the apartment the company had “assigned” him—white-tiled floors, old-fashioned furniture, yellowing newspapers spread out on the table, and the faint musty scent of aged books lingering in the air. The sofa was small, and every time he lay down, it creaked under his weight.
Fang Huai, just over 1.8 meters tall, curled his long legs up on the old couch, hands still propped behind his head. He was at that age where his body was still stretching out, slim but lean. His collarbone cast a sharp shadow, disappearing beneath the open collar of his shirt.
The boy tilted his head back, his light amber eyes staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
A long pause.
“…Fang Huai?”
The moment the name left his lips, the man on the other end pressed his own lips into a thin line, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes.
It was the first time he had called Fang Huai by name.
But his tone was too polite, too distant.
Fang Huai slowly came back to his senses.
Not in a good mood?
“Not bad.”
He curved his eyes into a faint smile, stayed quiet for a while, then awkwardly changed the subject, “Are you free sometime soon? I’d like to invite you over.”
And he meant it.
Since they were friends now, and Ye Yuyuan had helped him so much, he should express his gratitude properly—sincerely.
Friends were meant to be treated with honesty and warmth—not used as an outlet for complaints and grievances.
Ye Yuyuan was silent for a moment before responding with a simple “Mm.”
The call ended.
*
Night fell.
The impeccably dressed man stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his thin lips pressed into a neutral line. The dusky glow reflected in his deep, dark eyes, concealing any trace of emotion.
From this height, he could overlook the entire city. The streetlights, carrying the warmth of human life, flickered faintly below—but they could never reach the 32nd floor.
How should he put it?
He actually wished Fang Huai would confide in him.
Because somehow, it would have made them feel a little bit closer.
*
The next morning, Fang Huai got up sluggishly and went to wash up.
There was a potted plant sitting on the bathroom windowsill. Droplets of water clung to the tips of his slightly upturned hair, weighing them down. He ran a hand through his damp bangs and grabbed a towel.
Still, no melody came to mind—just a dull, empty blankness. It left him feeling a little lost.
Before, inspiration had been as natural to him as breathing—endless and effortless. Now that it was gone, the absence felt doubly unsettling. More than that, he realized he couldn’t even sing anymore. Not that he didn’t want to—but the moment he opened his mouth, it was as if his voice was blocked.
Inexplicable.
When he told Shi Feiran about it, Shi Feiran, who hadn’t realized how serious things were yesterday, immediately dragged him to a trusted psychologist today.
“Mild anxiety,” the doctor wrote a few notes in his notebook, then glanced at the well-behaved young man sitting outside the glass door.
“Adjustment issues in a new environment… Has he recently lost a loved one?”
There were many contributing factors—stress, anxiety, unfamiliar surroundings, the loss of family.
Shi Feiran was stunned.
Fang Huai had never mentioned anything about this. He only knew where Fang Huai was from and what his life had been like before—but not what had happened to his family.
“This isn’t necessarily a big problem, but it’s not small either. He’ll have to adjust on his own. Just don’t put too much pressure on him,” the doctor said helplessly.
For people working in the arts, this kind of situation wasn’t uncommon.
Inspiration is like a butterfly kissed by the Muse—you never know whose hand it will land on, and no matter how tightly you try to hold it, it will always slip through your fingers and flutter away.
Writers, painters, musicians… Some turn to alcohol. Some go mad. Some spend night after night unable to sleep. Some wander the streets, lost in thought.
“But he can’t even sing. Not a single word.” Shi Feiran pulled out a cigarette, then put it back. “He’s a singer.”
It was already afternoon.
They had spent the whole morning trying everything—getting Fang Huai to sing his old songs, sing other people’s songs, even sing Childish, a piece he had practiced countless times.
Nothing worked. He could still speak, but the moment he tried to sing, no sound would come out.
“That’s completely normal.”
This wasn’t just a psychological issue—cases where mental blocks caused physical symptoms were common. In artists, it was even more prevalent. But this was different from depression or autism. Medication wouldn’t help, only psychological counseling might.
Maybe he really needed a break, Shi Feiran thought.
But things never went as planned.
Just as he stepped out, he got a call from Frost’s music director, Wang An.
“Mr. Shi, how did the discussion go? If it’s convenient, we could meet for dinner tonight.”
The unspoken message: Let’s get that contract signed.
That morning, Wang An and Lin Shengyun had been reviewing Fang Huai’s old performance videos.
Even though Lin Shengyun had previously shot his mouth off, he knew exactly what kind of backlash he’d face online when the news broke. It was embarrassing, sure—but he wasn’t stupid. If anything, their team should be thanking their lucky stars that they had stumbled upon someone like Fang Huai.
Filming was about to start soon, but the theme song still hadn’t been finalized. Many people were urging Lin Shengyun to just settle for someone.
And he was confident that Fang Huai wouldn’t refuse. Frost was almost guaranteed to win an award, and when that happened, Fang Huai’s value would skyrocket. Even setting aside the commercial benefits, the kid was naturally talented at songwriting and singing—this shouldn’t be a difficult task for him, right?
“About that…” Shi Feiran sighed. “There’s been an unexpected situation. If it’s convenient for you, let’s meet and talk.”
*
Two hours later.
Shi Feiran and Fang Huai left. Inside the private room, Wang An and Lin Shengyun exchanged looks.
Out of consideration for Fang Huai’s emotions, they hadn’t discussed the matter openly earlier. Now, they could finally talk freely.
“He can’t write songs or sing?”
“His manager said,” Lin Shengyun replied, “he can still write. Shi Feiran showed me some of his recent work—it’s lost some of its spark, but even when forced, the quality is still decent.”
For Lin Shengyun, decent was already a high compliment.
It wasn’t as good as Fang Huai’s previous songs, but compared to most of the people they had considered for Frost, it was still the best fit. Art was an emotional thing, and Fang Huai was undoubtedly the right person for this project.
“But… he really can’t sing anymore.”
“I have an idea,” Wang An hesitated before speaking. “What if we let him compose the main melody, then bring in another composer—like Lao Hu—to refine it, and find a different singer to perform it?”
Lin Shengyun’s face darkened.
“Ridiculous.”
Yesterday, they had planned to entrust the composition, lyrics, and vocals to Fang Huai. It was a gamble, but his raw talent and artistry had made it worth the risk. Plus, he already had a strong fanbase, so the investors wouldn’t oppose it.
But if he only composed the melody, Fang Huai wouldn’t have enough credit to carry the project.
If they followed Wang An’s suggestion—having him write the main melody, letting another composer refine it, and hiring a different singer—then Fang Huai’s name would be pushed to the margins. He might not even be listed as part of Frost’s main creative team. In the end, he’d be doing all the work while someone else took the glory.
It was a waste.
But there are no secrets in this world.
Even though Shi Feiran and the others tried to keep it under wraps, within a day, rumors had already started leaking.
First, news broke online that Lin Shengyun had personally invited Fang Huai to compose, write, and perform the Frost theme song.
@MelonFarmerMakingBank: HAHAHA I just got some juicy gossip—Director Lin is about to slap himself in the face. Apparently, after telling the media ‘I will never, in this lifetime, invite Fang Huai to sing,’ he turned around, listened to Fang Huai’s song ‘Stars,’ and immediately changed his mind. He even scheduled a meeting with Shi Feiran that very afternoon. I happened to run into them. [Attached Image]
[Director Lin: I’d rather die here, jump out that window, than— Fang Huai: Smells nice, huh? .jpg]
[Stop using this for clout. Frost fans, I’m begging you, stop tying him to us for hype.]
[This isn’t hype. I swear I have no vested interest—Lin Shengyun and Wang An really are considering it. I’ve always thought Fang Huai had a rare talent, and it looks like he got lucky, meeting the right people so early in his career.]
[AAAAAHHHH! Hugging my baby tight and showering him with kisses! But, sisters, let’s keep this quiet for now. If we spread it too much, haters will jump on it. Let’s wait for the official announcement and hope everything goes smoothly.]
Fang Huai’s fans were the happiest, of course.
There was no way Frost was going to flop. If he landed the theme song, he’d rise to stardom with it. And even if the movie didn’t perform well, having a film theme song on his résumé would still be a major milestone.
So they waited… and waited.
But before Frost’s official announcement, another rumor surfaced.
—Fang Huai couldn’t sing anymore. And he couldn’t write, either.
The news hadn’t spread widely yet—his fans were desperately keeping it under wraps—but even within a small circle, it caused panic. Most didn’t believe it, but…
What if it was true?
Meanwhile, several talent agents had caught wind of the situation through their own sources and were growing restless.
If Fang Huai was out, this golden opportunity might fall to one of their artists. If that happened, they’d be the ones to benefit the most.
*
“We’re not doing this anymore,” Shi Feiran said over the phone. “To hell with Frost. We’re not short on money.”
Shi Feiran barely managed to hold back from outright cursing on the call.
This wasn’t Lin Shengyun’s idea—maybe Wang An had predicted that Lin wouldn’t agree, so he had his assistant reach out to Shi Feiran in private. They asked if Fang Huai could compose the main melody and said they were willing to offer any price.
Any price—the unspoken meaning was clear. Fang Huai’s name would be tucked away in the credits of Frost’s theme song, and he wouldn’t even make it into the main cast list. Shi Feiran had replied with just three words: “Not worth it.”
With advertisements, endorsements, and variety shows, Fang Huai could still live comfortably without ever singing again, given his current popularity.
But… sometimes, Shi Feiran wondered. If Fang Huai stopped singing altogether and spent his days as a pretty face in commercials and reality shows, wouldn’t that go against his original dream?
“I don’t mind.”
Fang Huai had just finished cooking himself a bowl of noodles. He spoke seriously over the phone: “I really like Frost’s story. Writing the music for them isn’t a big deal.”
Shi Feiran and the others hadn’t told him all the details, but Fang Huai could guess most of it on his own.
His thoughts were simple.
Even though inspiration no longer came to him naturally, and he wasn’t satisfied with the songs he forced himself to write, he didn’t mind if his work could still help someone else. He never wrote or sang for any particular reason, and besides, Frost was a story he genuinely liked.
That was all there was to it.
The loss of inspiration weighed on him, but he remained composed and graceful. Sometimes, Shi Feiran felt that Fang Huai didn’t seem like a kid from the countryside. He didn’t understand many things, but his perspective and heart were broader than most adults who had seen the world.
His thoughts were simple, yet deeply perceptive.
After hanging up, Fang Huai turned on a small nightlight and finished his bowl of noodles with quiet focus.
When he was done, he washed the dishes, then sat on the couch watching TV. The old television had a bit of static, playing a sitcom with flickering frames. The dim light of the night lamp cast a soft golden glow on the young man’s eyelashes, like scattered stardust. He watched with unwavering attention.
At nine o’clock, the sitcom ended, cutting to commercials. Fang Huai picked up the remote and turned off the TV.
He moved to sit by the window, absentmindedly picking up a fallen leaf from outside. He folded it carefully and placed it against his lips.
A simple melody from a childhood lullaby played in the quiet.
The night breeze tousled his bangs. A small bird landed on his shoulder, tilting its head to nuzzle against him.
His apartment wasn’t on a high floor, so he could clearly see the streets below, bustling with people and glowing lights. An old man selling roasted sweet potatoes was packing up his stall, holding his granddaughter in one arm while lighting a small lantern. Slowly, they walked home together.
From those ordinary moments of life, Fang Huai tasted a faint loneliness.
Fang Jianguo once said that people are born alone. Fang Huai never believed it before.
But thinking back now… maybe, in many ways, he had been right.
When he was fully awake, Fang Huai rarely let himself think about Fang Jianguo. It made things easier. He disliked goodbyes, even more so prolonged separations, yet he had been experiencing them all his life.
Fang Huai went to bed.
He slept deeply, never hearing the phone that kept ringing through the night.
*
The next day, first floor of Starlight Entertainment.
“Fang Huai? He’s washed up. Can’t write songs anymore.”
“And he can’t sing either. Total downfall.”
“He can still do endorsements and variety shows, but he should drop the whole ‘artist’ persona. It’s laughable.”
“I heard he can still write, though. Wang An wants him to compose the main melody—but without credit. Basically, he’ll just be making wedding clothes for someone else.”
“Tsk tsk tsk.”
The moment Shi Feiran stepped through the glass doors, all conversation came to an abrupt halt.
A centipede doesn’t die easily—people in this industry were quick to change sides, but Fang Huai hadn’t actually fallen yet. Talking behind his back was one thing; none of them had the guts to mock him to his face.
Shi Feiran smiled, though inwardly he scoffed. Who do these nobodies think they are, worrying about someone else’s life? Even if Fang Huai never sang again, he’d still be doing better than this group of washed-up has-beens.
He was here today to discuss an endorsement deal—a certain luxury brand had its eye on Fang Huai.
But he couldn’t say anything about it yet, so he kept it to himself.
Still, he couldn’t shake his frustration over the whole Frost situation.
Because of the rumors about Fang Huai being creatively drained, people watched him closely as he moved through the building. But when he stepped out of the elevator, he suddenly realized—
No one was looking at him anymore.
Everyone was staring at their phones.
“?”
Confused, Shi Feiran pulled out his own phone, opened Weibo, and checked the trending topics.
And then—
“Frost Theme Song Composer Announced”
Shi Feiran clicked in, completely dumbfounded.
There, in bold, prominent letters, was written:
“Composer: Fang Huai.”
Not a minor credit. Not some footnote. The primary composer. His name would be on the main cast list.
Frost’s official account and Lin Shengyun had both confirmed it.
…It was real!
*
Fang Huai slept until 8 AM.
Shi Feiran hadn’t contacted him. With nothing to do, he tried writing a song but couldn’t, so he ended up doing housework instead.
Even with an empty schedule, Fang Huai remained disciplined.
He practiced first. Then, when he had free time, he read the newspaper. At 2 PM, he took a nap and woke up to the evening sky.
His smartphone vibrated nonstop. He eyed it cautiously but picked up the old-fashioned feature phone instead.
That door in his mind was still shut. The sounds, the colors, the melodies—all blocked out. His ears rang with silence.
He was almost used to it now.
Today’s sunset was beautiful. The edges burned red, gilded with gold, a romantic hue stretching across the ground.
On the other end of the phone, there was a faint electric buzz, followed by soft breathing.
“Hmm?”
After a long silence, a low, cool voice asked, “Do you want to go see the stars?”
The voice was calm, yet gentle. Suddenly, it overlapped with memories from years ago.
Fang Huai’s grip on the phone tightened. A wave of dizziness hit him.
“Do you want to go see the stars?”
“If you want to go, we’ll go right now.”
“If you want to go, we’ll go right now.”
The evening wind suddenly picked up.
And in that fleeting moment, carrying the scent of fireworks and the rustle of the city, an explosion of notes and melodies surged into Fang Huai’s mind.
