Chapter 40
The rain had stopped.
The gray world was now painted with color, each vibrant shade gradually surfacing.
All the hues and sounds that had been muffled by the rain returned with clarity. The city was wrapped in the warmth of everyday life and human voices, while puddles reflected the shimmering starlit sky.
Just as Fang Huai had thought—the stars that night were beautiful.
In this small water-town city by the sea, rivers flowed through every corner, each one reflecting the vast expanse of stars, all merging into the ocean.
The streets were nearly empty as the two of them strolled slowly along the road.
Fang Huai was still immersed in the fleeting emotion from earlier, feeling both a bit fascinated and a little joyful. The door that had locked away his inspiration had cracked open, but there was still something missing.
“I thought you were busy with work,” Fang Huai said. “I didn’t want to bother you… Do you want to take a boat ride?”
His gaze had drifted to a small boat moored along the riverbank, and his thoughts suddenly jumped.
It was a boat meant for tourists, left unattended at night. The boatman sat nearby, dozing off.
Fang Huai knew how to row, especially with this kind of small boat. Back in the mountains where he used to live, there were also rivers and streams. Fang Jianguo had built a little boat of his own, which he kept right by their doorstep.
“…”
As soon as Fang Huai finished speaking, he realized it might not be very practical.
It was late. It wasn’t exactly safe. And Ye Yuyuan might not even be interested.
A flicker of unease crossed his light amber eyes. The wind had turned the tip of his nose slightly red, and feeling a little embarrassed, he rubbed it.
“Sorry, just pretend I never—”
Before he could finish, the silent man gave a slight nod. “Mm.”
His expression remained neutral, lips pressed into a straight line, but in the night, his deep black eyes held a hint of warmth.
The dozing boatman sneezed awake, glanced at them, and checked his phone. Muttering in the local dialect, he said, “Boss, you guys finally showed up. Another half hour and your reservation would’ve expired.”
Fang Huai didn’t quite understand. “What?… Reservation?”
Ye Yuyuan cleared his throat lightly.
The boatman didn’t explain further, simply handing Fang Huai the oar and demonstrating a few strokes.
Fang Huai stepped onto the boat. He picked it up quickly—after all, he had rowed often before, and this wasn’t much different. Ten minutes later, he had maneuvered a few meters away from the shore, then skillfully turned the oar, guiding the boat steadily back to the dock.
“I know how to row this,” he said, looking at Ye Yuyuan. The gloom of the past few days had completely lifted from his expression—his smile was bright, unruly, carrying a youthful, spirited charm. “Want to give it a try? Let’s go see the ocean.”
Every river eventually flows into the sea.
Even Fang Huai himself hadn’t noticed that the nervousness he once had when speaking to Ye Yuyuan was gradually fading away.
Now, he seemed at ease—familiar and warm. His eyes were full of light and joy.
The man, always dressed in a neatly pressed suit, always serious, remained silent for a moment before giving a slight nod. He was much taller than Fang Huai and had just lowered his gaze, about to step forward—
When a hand reached out in front of him.
Fang Huai’s fingers were long and well-shaped, though calloused from not having grown up in comfort.
The sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up, and his light amber eyes were as clear as if they had been washed by water, carrying the glimmer of starlight at the corners. Worried that Ye Yuyuan might not be used to this kind of boat and could lose his balance, he instinctively reached out to hold his hand.
The water rippled gently. The night breeze was soft.
“…”
Ye Yuyuan’s index finger brushed over his cufflink. His throat tightened slightly, and his fingers curled inward.
After a moment, somewhat clumsily, he reached out and took Fang Huai’s hand.
Fang Huai didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.
The boat cut through the water, rocking gently as it moved forward. The oar stirred the stars reflected in the river, while the air carried the cool dampness of the tide and the distinct scent left behind by the rain.
A breeze soon picked up. Fang Huai simply let go of the oar, allowing the current to guide the boat along at a leisurely pace.
He leaned back against the small boat, stretching out his long legs, his eyes reflecting the endless expanse of stars above.
“The stars look really beautiful tonight.”
“Mm.”
“Ye Yuyuan, I’m really happy you came today. Thank you. I was actually… feeling pretty down before. I lost something very important.”
“Mm.”
Fang Huai spoke, and Ye Yuyuan listened in quiet attentiveness. He didn’t say much, but he listened carefully.
The boat drifted past the glowing streets, moving from the narrow river into the broader waters of the river, heading toward the sea.
The night breeze brushed softly against them.
“Did you find it?” Ye Yuyuan suddenly asked in a low voice. “That important thing.”
Fang Huai turned to look at him. Ye Yuyuan was seated beside him, lowering his gaze at just that moment. Their eyes met and held for a long moment.
“Not yet. Just a little more.” Fang Huai smiled.
It really was just a little more.
He could hear faint notes in his mind now—not a vast emptiness anymore. The notes were messy, jumbled together, yet the most essential piece was still missing.
Ye Yuyuan gave a low hum in response.
He didn’t ask anything further.
“Sometimes, I think humans are such small and lonely beings,” Fang Huai murmured, gesturing with his hand as he looked up at the stars. “Like a tiny stone thrown into the water, carried forward by the current.”
Always drifting apart, always saying goodbye. In the end, we hold onto so little, and a single gust of wind is enough to scatter it all away.
Fang Huai lowered his gaze slightly. On this damp summer night, after a heavy rain, he suddenly felt like turning his heart inside out—like taking out the things hidden in the corners and letting them see the stars.
The boat drifted forward with the wind.
Ye Yuyuan sat beside Fang Huai in quiet tenderness, following his gaze to the boundless night sky.
“I… don’t want to find it.”
Fang Huai looked up at the starry sky and suddenly spoke.
At that moment, he realized something—his inspiration hadn’t disappeared. He had abandoned it himself.
Ever since he arrived in Nan City a month ago, he had written a few songs. And Stars, the song he wrote for his fans, had been a turning point. Stars meant that he was being liked, that he was trying to respond to others’ emotions, trying to build deeper emotional bonds with people…
But so what?
“I miss home,” he murmured, closing his eyes, his voice growing softer. “But the wind carries me forward, introducing me to new people, new experiences. The people most important to me, my hometown, my companions—they’re all left behind… I was abandoned by them.”
Fang Jianguo loved to drink. Fang Jianguo had terrible luck at mahjong. A new nest of birds had moved into the banyan tree at their doorstep. The newspaper on the table hadn’t been changed in ages—
He remembered every detail so clearly. Yet, the colors in his memory were fading. He was losing them.
That was why he couldn’t write songs anymore.
It wasn’t that he had no inspiration—it was that, deep down, he was rejecting it. Rejecting the journey ahead. Resisting moving forward.
The brilliant stars overhead continued to shimmer.
Ye Yuyuan listened in silence.
“I’m making more and more connections with this world;I’m happy, but also sad. I’m drifting further and further away from Fang Jianguo and my hometown, and the last traces of them are vanishing.”
“And the little animals I raised… It’s like they never existed in this world at all.”
Fang Huai curled up slightly, eyes shut. After the fleeting joy came the cold, the exhaustion.
It was the first time he had spoken so much.
He didn’t think about these things often, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. All these emotions had piled up, and only now, little by little, were they spilling out.
The long-silent man finally spoke, “They haven’t disappeared.”
His voice was low, steady, yet somehow solemn. His words carried a quiet sigh, carried away bit by bit on the night breeze.
Fang Huai froze.
The creeping cold along his spine suddenly stopped.
“They won’t disappear.”
“That’s the Big Dipper. Beside it is the Little Bear Constellation, and next to that is the North Star. And beside the North Star—”
Fang Huai opened his eyes instinctively, looking toward the sky.
That single second stretched infinitely. The night breeze slowed. Suspended between the sea and the sky, he felt his own insignificance and solitude—until, in the next breath, that deep voice pulled him back to reality.
The boundaries of time and distance blurred in an instant. The voice in his ears overlapped with a sigh from years ago.
*
That day, he had gotten lost.
He must have been six or seven years old, wandering through the forest alone, stumbling and falling. The memory beyond that was hazy, as if shrouded in mist, unclear even now. But he remembered that voice.
The person in his memory had reached out, somewhat awkwardly, and lifted him into their arms. That person, usually quiet and reserved, had spoken more words than ever before. Their slightly hoarse voice had been endlessly gentle.
And they had said—“The North Star is beside the moon. And below the moon—”
“—is home.”
The voice from reality and the voice from memory overlapped. The colors of the past crossed the years, seeping into this night.
The wind suddenly picked up again. The sound of the rising tide filled the silence.
“I can’t see home,” Fang Huai’s voice tightened. He repeated the same words he had said all those years ago. “It abandoned me. I can’t go back.”
Ye Yuyuan remained silent for a long time.
His gaze was soft as he asked in a low voice:
“Can you see the moon?”
When the stars are shining, the moon is nowhere to be seen. But that doesn’t mean it has disappeared.
“The moon is just asleep. Tomorrow, the day after—”
It will always come back.
Just like everything that leaves, everything that drifts away.
The starlight shimmered in Fang Huai’s light-colored eyes.
As the night breeze brushed past, something inside him slowly began to open. More colors and sounds seeped through, and countless scattered notes intertwined in his mind.
The moon is just asleep—it sounded like something you’d say to comfort a child.
For a moment, Fang Huai was at a loss. Then, for another moment, he almost wanted to laugh. But what surged up inside him wasn’t amusement—it was a wave of emotions, stronger and more intense than before. He understood this truth already, yet hearing it from Ye Yuyuan’s lips made it feel deeper, weightier, more real.
Somehow, without reason, he believed every word Ye Yuyuan said.
“The moon hasn’t disappeared?”
Ye Yuyuan gave a quiet hum of affirmation.
His dark eyes, both silent and gentle, rested on the young man. Sitting in the boat, his posture was upright, poised rather than rigid. Suddenly, he shifted slightly, lowering his gaze, and scooped up a handful of water from the river, “Look.”
The clear water reflected the vast expanse of stars.
But beneath the stars—perhaps due to the way light and shadow played together—a faint moon seemed to rest.
Fang Huai suddenly fell silent. The night breeze slowed, and his eyes fixed on Ye Yuyuan’s palm—He had lifted the moonlight from the depths of the abyss.
“Ye Yuyuan…”
“It won’t disappear.”
A fleeting smile tugged at Ye Yuyuan’s lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Then, his expression returned to calm, steady and composed. He gazed at Fang Huai in silence, as if affirming his words once more, then repeated them softly.
The night wind was gentle.
Fang Huai parted his lips slightly.
The tide suddenly surged, and in the heart of the vast ocean, his soul resonated with the sea and the stars. The howling wind rushed past, carrying his very being into the vastness of the world.
First came the distant voices of people, the glow of lanterns along the shore, the melodies of fishermen’s songs. Then, the stars, the sea, the moonlight.
He saw the moonlight.
Under the boundless sky, Fang Huai’s emotions rose and fell with the tide. Amid the countless stars, he reached out and gathered a handful of deeper, richer colors—hidden behind the night’s veil, nestled in the depths of the universe and the secrets of every story.
It had never faded. It would never disappear.
From the first spark of fire in the world, from desolate lands to bustling crowds, everyone is swept forward by the relentless tide of time—unable to control their farewells, separations, and the diverging paths they must take. But every path leads toward the moon, and every winding journey is, in the end, a journey home.
Fang Huai suddenly stood up.
In an instant, his eyes lit up with brilliance, countless musical notes weaving themselves into melodies within his mind. The inspiration he had suppressed for so long now burst forth like an unstoppable tide!
The boat reached the shore, the night wind was gentle.
He needed a piano and a pen.
“I found it—I found that important thing and I… I want to write a song.”
“Mm.”
Fang Huai stepped onto the shore, instinctively quickening his pace. The heart he had buried under layers of restraint suddenly leaped to life, his blood surging through his veins. He was happy—but there was something even deeper than happiness, something urgent, something that made him want to write, to capture this moment in music.
Ye Yuyuan stood behind him, his back straight, watching the boy’s retreating figure with silent gentleness.
The night fell softly between them.
Ye Yuyuan’s fingertip brushed over his cufflink. A flicker of loss flashed through his dark eyes before they quickly regained their usual calm.
In a low voice, he murmured, “I won’t leave either.”
“All these years… I missed you.”
Fang Huai wouldn’t hear it.
But that was okay—as long as he was happy.
At least…
The boy in front suddenly stopped.
Ye Yuyuan froze.
Fang Huai turned around, ran back toward him in a few quick strides, tilted his head up to look at him—then, without warning, reached out and hugged him!
Ye Yuyuan’s breath caught. His heart tightened slightly.
The wind carried the faint scent of the sea.
He knew exactly what this hug meant—gratitude, friendship, the joy of sharing something special. It couldn’t possibly contain the one thing he longed for. He knew this, even felt a tinge of frustration at himself for hoping otherwise. But even so, his heartbeat—utterly beyond his control—began to race, little by little.
This late-summer night held a quiet, dreamlike romance.
The man hesitated for a moment before slowly, somewhat unpracticed, raising his arms—gathering the boy and the starlight together in an embrace. Gentle, yet restrained.
As the night deepened, the lights in a thousand homes flickered out one by one, but the stars only shone brighter.
“Ye Yuyuan.”
Fang Huai pulled back slightly, his nose tinged red, his breath uneven. He looked at the silent man with unwavering sincerity and said:
“This song will be called Abyss Moonlight.”
A faint heat spread across Ye Yuyuan’s ears. “…Mm?”
“I want to give it to you.”
“Will you wait for me?”
The boy’s voice was soft, clean, carrying the warmth of someone weaving the most beautiful dream in the world.
Fang Huai was willing to believe in Ye Yuyuan.
And Ye Yuyuan—Ye Yuyuan had faith in Fang Huai. He was his god.
A faith so unwavering, so absolute, it was almost blind.
—Will you wait for me?
The river shimmered, the starlight and city lights cascading over him. Ye Yuyuan’s gaze softened beyond words, countless unspoken thoughts resting within it, waiting for a time when he could tell them to Fang Huai—one by one.
With quiet reverence, he answered, “Okay.”
For you—no matter how long, I will wait.
*
Fang Huai pushed open the study door once again.
The breathing light of his smartphone pulsed faintly on the desk, while the upright piano stood silently in the corner. What Fang Huai didn’t know was that his phone’s livestream had been running all night, left unattended in the quiet room. No one had noticed, yet the occasional comment still drifted across the screen.
[Has anyone contacted Shi Feiran? Maybe he can remind our baby to turn off the stream.]
[Did he go out? Without his phone? I checked, and it’s raining over there—did he bring an umbrella…?]
[What are you all waiting for? It’s almost eleven. Go to sleep.]
[I just want to wait for him to come back. I hope he feels better soon.]
[+1]
Everyone knew it was about his lost inspiration, but no one said it outright. Logically, it wasn’t something that could be resolved so quickly, so the fans didn’t hold out much hope.
No one knew how much time had passed when, from the long-silent microphone, the faint sound of a door opening was heard. The ninety-something viewers still in the stream unconsciously let out a breath of relief—only to widen their eyes in the next second.
There was piano music.
Fang Huai shut the door behind him, his breathing still unsteady. He lifted the piano lid, closed his eyes, and pressed the first key.
He wasn’t looking, yet in his mind, every note appeared vividly, as if they were right in front of him; He followed the half-written melody scribbled on his desk calendar, continuing downward, letting the music flow. The notes surged like an incoming tide, sweeping his soul into an endless expanse of stars and ocean.
The notes danced, weaving into one another. He moved forward beneath a night sky filled with stars and through the depths of the sea. In the most distant place, he encountered a rose. In the deepest abyss, he saw moonlight.
This passage was radiant and romantic, profound like an epic, yet unbearably gentle.
It overflowed with brilliance.
The viewers still watching the stream felt as though this was beyond their imagination. Before, they had recognized that Fang Huai was a talented composer, but this—this was something else. For the first time, they lost awareness of themselves, their consciousness dissolving into the music, their skin tingling as they were drawn into the melody’s resonance.
It was better than anything he had ever written before.
[AAAAHHHHHHH]
[Oh my god]
They thought this was already the peak.
But they didn’t expect what happened next.
As the piano’s resonance deepened, many of them suddenly found themselves overwhelmed—shaking, unable to control their emotions.
Because they heard—Singing.
