Chapter 39
The filming of Frost was about to begin. The set had already been cleared, and staff members were bustling back and forth. Many actors had arrived early to familiarize themselves with the location and script. The accompanying screenwriter was showing Fang Huai around.
“You more or less know the story of Frost, right?” The screenwriter, a gentle middle-aged woman with glasses, asked. “I talked to Director Lin before, and he told me one thing—‘A story about unwavering romance and ideals.’”
“Unwavering romance and ideals.” Fang Huai walked beside her, repeating the words thoughtfully.
That sentiment fit Frost perfectly.
Frost wasn’t a conventional story. It centered around the protagonist, but it felt more like an ensemble film. Every character was vivid and alive, interpreting the words “romance” and “ideals” through their own lives.
It was still drizzling that day. Crew members passed by, many sneaking glances at Fang Huai. His appearance was too striking. There were already quite a few actors here, all good-looking, but he still stood out in the crowd.
“Ms. Zhang, Xu Shu hasn’t arrived yet.” Someone hurried over. “He got delayed again and said he won’t be flying in until tomorrow.”
The screenwriter, Ms. Zhang, furrowed her brows slightly. “Still not here?”
Turning to Fang Huai, she nodded apologetically. “Sorry, give me a moment.”
She handed her umbrella to Fang Huai and walked towards a nearby building, opening her own umbrella.
Fang Huai stood under the gray walls and white tiles, watching the rainwater trail down the wall in winding streams. He was momentarily lost in thought. He hadn’t slept since 3 AM last night, yet he didn’t feel tired. Countless musical notes clamored in his head, but that fleeting inspiration he had glimpsed remained elusive.
A black cat rubbed against his pant leg and lazily licked its paw.
Still deep in thought, Fang Huai unconsciously tilted his umbrella toward the cat, exposing half of his own shoulder to the rain.
Many people couldn’t help but quietly lift their phones to take pictures.
A costume designer was discussing something with a colleague when she glanced out the window and was momentarily stunned. The person beside her followed her gaze, let out a small gasp, and asked, “Who is that? Handsome. He looks kind of familiar. Is he an actor?”
The designer shook her head and casually said,
“He has a great physique—he’d look amazing in a military uniform.”
The boy had the kind of frame that could carry any style. He was tall and lean, effortlessly pulling off different looks. The military uniforms from the era depicted in Frost were well-designed, but not many actors could wear them convincingly.
Today, Fang Huai wore a slightly loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. When he lifted the umbrella slightly, a pair of light amber eyes, shimmering like water, were revealed beneath the umbrella’s edge. He stood under the gray sky and against the white walls, holding the umbrella to shield the little cat from the rain.
It was a picture full of narrative depth.
“You guys don’t know him?” A passing music assistant whispered, “That’s Fang Huai—the one who won that talent show. He’s the one who composed our theme song.”
“A talent show contestant?” The designer was briefly taken aback. “He doesn’t look like one.”
She didn’t have a great impression of talent show contestants, but this young man seemed clean and composed.
“He looks honest, but he’s actually really good at marketing himself. He keeps up this ‘old-school, devoted-to-fans’ persona, and his fans are all head over heels for him,” the assistant scoffed. “But I heard he can’t write songs anymore. No idea what Director Lin is thinking—I bet they’ll have to replace the composer soon.”
“Who said that?”
A lazy voice rang out.
The three people present turned toward the sound, all momentarily stunned.
A tall and strikingly handsome man leaned against the doorframe, his half-lidded pale golden eyes drowsy as he let out a yawn. Rain was still falling outside, and the distant corridor lights cast a soft glow. He lowered his gaze absentmindedly, fiddling with his phone.
Just last week, he had been abroad attending a film festival.
He was the lead actor of Frost—Feng Lang.
*
That morning, after touring the set, Fang Huai had carefully listened to the screenwriter’s insights and watched a few supporting actors rehearse. Then, he locked himself in his room.
The room wasn’t large, furnished with an upright piano and a desk. The curtains were drawn. Fang Huai held the script, glancing at it before pressing a few keys on the piano, scribbling down some notes, then crumpling the paper and tossing it into the trash bin—repeating the process over and over.
He could compose quickly, effortlessly putting notes to paper. Even without inspiration, he could force out a melody. But he discarded each draft just as quickly, and soon, the trash bin was full.
At noon, Shi Feiran came by with his lunch and casually suggested,
“If you have time later, how about doing a livestream?”
Since his red-carpet appearance, Fang Huai hadn’t shown his face for quite a while. Though he posted on Weibo daily—sometimes with Shi Feiran uploading pictures for him—his interactions with fans were minimal. Maintaining a certain level of visibility was important.
Shi Feiran also meant to nudge Fang Huai into relaxing a bit—he was pushing himself too hard. Maybe chatting with fans would help lighten his mood. It wouldn’t be a formal promotional livestream, just a casual conversation, and Shi Feiran would monitor the chat, making sure nothing went wrong.
Patiently, he explained to Fang Huai what a livestream was.
Fang Huai nodded. “Okay.”
He absentmindedly chewed on a piece of bread, his gaze unfocused. After finishing the bread in a few bites, he sat back at the desk, picked up his pen, and—three minutes later—tossed another crumpled piece of paper into the bin.
Shi Feiran: “…”
Half an hour later, Fang Huai clumsily set up his phone and started the livestream.
It was his first time streaming, and he hadn’t announced it beforehand, yet within moments, thousands of viewers flooded in, the number steadily climbing.
[Is it really him?! Ahhhh, I’m losing my mind—he’s so close to me, let me soak it all in.]
[You look thinner, are you overworking yourself? Please take a break, okay?]
[Are you writing music, Huaihuai? I see the piano in the background!]
[No filter, no makeup—you’re too real! But damn, you still look stunning. This all-nighter was worth it.]
Fang Huai was unfamiliar with livestreams and struggled to keep up with the scrolling messages. Still, he tried his best to respond seriously:
“I’m writing music. Not at home.”
“Staying up late? Don’t sleep too late. Good night.”
“I’ll play for you.”
Fans requested him to play the piano, so he casually played a short piece. No one mentioned anything about his creative block.
Suddenly, a few comments shot across the screen—
[That was awful. He clearly can’t compose anymore but still clings to Frost like a leech. Absolutely disgusting.]
[Lin Shengyun, wake up! Get rid of this talentless pretty face already. Fang Huai, get lost from Frost. Thanks.]
That user ID was quickly banned. Fans were furious but refrained from starting an open argument in the chat. Instead, they silently worked together, flooding the screen with new comments to bury the hateful ones. Still, unease lingered in their hearts.
The livestream ended soon after.
Fang Huai turned off his phone screen, and many viewers gradually exited the stream. Some left entirely, while others kept the stream open in the background while doing other things. Eventually, the viewer count settled at around a hundred.
Among these hundred people, some went to sleep, others continued working, and some returned half an hour later—only to hear the sound of a piano.
Fang Huai had only turned off the screen; he hadn’t actually ended the livestream!
*
On the other side.
Fang Huai put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. He glanced at the script, then at a torn page from his desk calendar—on it was a line and a half of music, something he had written in a sudden burst of inspiration. Those few notes were so exquisite that anything he tried to write afterward felt like a poor imitation.
It was now 5 PM.
From 3 AM last night until now—excluding the time spent visiting the set, eating, and livestreaming—twenty hours had passed. The rain had stopped, the late-summer cicadas’ cries were fading, the fan hummed noisily, and yet his sheet of paper remained blank.
Twenty hours. And from the day his inspiration vanished until now, nearly a full week had passed.
The piano keys under his fingers mixed with the sound of cicadas, creating an unbearably jarring noise.
The hundred people who had remained in the livestream tacitly chose not to spread what they were witnessing. Occasionally, a few quiet comments would appear.
[Can anyone contact Shi Feiran? Maybe remind him about this.]
[My heart aches for him… Has he been writing this whole time? Honestly, I thought some of those drafts sounded great already. He’s being way too hard on himself.]
[…]
Fang Huai gripped his pen for two seconds, then let it go.
He closed the piano lid.
“I can’t write. I have no inspiration.”
For a brief moment, he felt an overwhelming urge to surrender.
He really couldn’t do it. Every note felt completely out of control, disobedient, all wrong.
Where does inspiration come from? Passionate emotions, sudden bursts of insight, an endless love for life.
It was as if some tiny component inside him had broken, rendering the entire machine incapable of functioning.
The exhaustion and frustration of the past few days began to rise.
Fang Huai stared at the ceiling for half a minute. Then, suddenly, he strode to the piano and lifted the lid.
It was Symphony No. 5, Fate.
The first note he struck was from its most climactic section. The music soared instantly to its peak—like a sudden downpour, like a roaring tsunami—fierce, relentless. In that moment, the violent cascade of notes filled the entire small room.
One moment, it was a tranquil summer evening, warm and calm. The next, it was as if he had been thrust into the eye of a raging storm, a surge so intense that even the listeners couldn’t help but shudder.
Fang Huai never complained to anyone about anything. Music was his only means of expression.
So, this was an outburst.
His fingers pressed down on the keys with force, each note landing with full weight. The comment section, which had been lively just moments ago, fell silent in an instant. Of the hundred people still hanging in the livestream, twenty or thirty were truly listening—and in that moment, they were all pulled into the whirlwind.
…It was powerful.
Struggle. Adversity. When Fang Huai played Symphony No. 5, something was different from before. There was something more.
[AAAAHHHHH]
[Did anyone record that?! This Fate Symphony has a strangely mesmerizing quality…]
When the piece ended, Fang Huai closed the piano lid.
His mind was still blank. Dusk was setting in, but no colors or melodies emerged.
He let out a soft breath—Keep writing.
He walked to the desk and picked up his pen again. This time, however, he didn’t rush to write. He had always been too hasty before—writing one passage after another, forcing himself to keep pushing forward, only to find himself moving further away.
Passionate emotions. Sudden flashes of inspiration. An endless love for life.
Fang Huai repeated those words in his mind.
Inspiration…
When was the last time it struck him?
He had thought it was just a coincidence.
At some point, a light rain had started falling again outside. The evening deepened, nightfall approaching quickly. Yet, Fang Huai suddenly had a feeling that tonight, the stars would be beautiful.
He wanted to see them. Badly.
He unlocked his phone and pulled up a number. His finger hovered over the call button, hesitating.
After a long silence, he didn’t press it. Instead, he grabbed his keys, walked to the door, took one last glance inside, and stepped out.
It was dinnertime, and with the rain coming down, the streets were nearly empty.
The rain grew heavier, and the wind picked up.
By the time the sky had turned completely dark, Fang Huai, without an umbrella, was forced to take shelter under the awning of a convenience store. He stood there quietly, the hem of his shirt dampened by the rain, gazing at the dense, lightless downpour.
“Hey, big brother, we’re closing early tonight, so—” A young female employee pulled down the store’s metal shutter and walked over to him. Her voice paused in surprise. “…Are you Fang Huai?”
Two minutes later, the girl cheerfully climbed into her boyfriend’s car, hugging an autograph in her arms. She had left behind an umbrella and a small lamp for Fang Huai. She had also asked if he needed a ride home, but he had politely declined.
He wanted to wait a little longer—maybe the rain would stop soon?
Another ten minutes passed.
A resident in the distance cracked open a window to let in fresh air, and the muffled voice of the TV weather forecast drifted out intermittently:
“Heavy rain expected… Rainfall will continue throughout the night… Temperatures may—”
Fang Huai: “…”
Maybe he shouldn’t have come out. In this kind of weather, there was no way he could see the stars.
If it were anyone else, they would say Fang Huai was going through a streak of bad luck. Nothing was going his way—his inspiration had run dry, his luck was terrible, and now, even when he tried to go out and see the stars, he was caught in a sudden downpour, stranded on the street with nowhere to go.
The young man stood under the streetlight, head lowered, his damp clothes clinging to him. He looked dejected, his slightly upturned hair tips drooping under the glow of the light, lacking their usual energy.
He took a step forward, stepping into the rain, deciding to brave the storm and head back.
Suddenly, an umbrella appeared over his head.
The sound of raindrops pattering against the umbrella grew louder. A car horn sounded in the distance, headlights casting a blurred glow through the rain.
A man stood silently beside him, holding the umbrella, wordlessly drawing him under its cover.
Ye Yuyuan had just finished a grueling ten-hour meeting. When he arrived, the first thing he saw was Fang Huai standing listlessly under an awning, looking utterly defeated. His fingers curled slightly.
Fang Huai didn’t speak for a long time.
Ye Yuyuan’s deep black eyes fixed on him steadily. After a while, he asked in a low voice, “Do you want to see the stars?”
“It’s raining,” Fang Huai said, lowering his gaze. “There are no stars.”
The rain was loud, the thick clouds blocking out the entire night sky. The whole world was enveloped in the downpour, making one feel impossibly small within it.
Ye Yuyuan was silent for a moment, then said,
“The rain will stop.”
“At least tonight…”
Fang Huai’s breath suddenly hitched.
Ye Yuyuan’s words felt like a spell cast over the world.
The heavy rain gradually softened. The large raindrops shrank, and in the puddles by the roadside, the reflection of the retreating clouds appeared.
The cold night wind gentled.
Standing in the heart of the small city, Fang Huai heard the sound of windows opening, caught the scent of tofu sizzling in a pan from someone’s kitchen, and listened as an elderly voice softly hummed a lullaby. These countless little moments wove together, rushing in at once, becoming sharply clear as the rain quieted.
Color deepened.
Sounds and lights surged toward him like ocean waves, surrounding him completely. But just as quickly, everything faded away. And in the fleeting silence that followed the rain’s end—Fang Huai saw them.
The stars.
The clouds had scattered, revealing a sky filled with endless stars. Their delicate light reflected in every puddle, shimmering together.
A tightly closed door creaked open just slightly, and from within, the sound of music trickled out.
“The rain will stop.”
Fang Huai stood at the center of countless stars and city lights.
His soul trembled along with the colors and melodies flowing in. The boundaries of time and space blurred. He had touched upon that hidden seam, finally understanding what had been missing.
His inspiration had once been elusive, born from all things in the world. But this time, it was different.
Passionate emotions. Sudden flashes of inspiration. An endless love for life.
Ye Yuyuan… which one was he?
“Looking at the stars?”
“Mm.”
The serious man’s lips curved ever so slightly—so fleeting it almost went unnoticed. His expression remained composed, but in the depths of his dark eyes, a softness had settled.
A melody began to flow gently in Fang Huai’s heart. This time, inspiration didn’t burst forth suddenly; instead, it seeped out little by little, like a stream gathering into a river. It was just a little short—fragments of the tune were forming, but it had yet to fully emerge.
This difficult test was finally coming to an end. He had found the answer this time.
And that answer’s name…
Was Ye Yuyuan.
