Three years.
Snow fell in Qingcheng twelve times, and he waited for that person for a thousand and ninety-five days.
He pressed the fabric that his grandfather had been looking forward to his whole life into the bottom of the photo frame and exchanged it for a standing ticket.
He locked the song he had written for three years in a drawer, and there was a line in the chorus, "Falling into your eyes."
Later she got married.
Later his grandfather passed away.
Later, he owed two million, running for sixteen hours a day to take out food, and squatting on the roadside at three in the morning eating instant noodles.
Someone asked him if it was worth it.
He didn't answer.
He just got the strings in tune.
——
Six years later.
Fanyin Media has a market value of hundreds of billions.
The music world calls him the Godfather, and the business world calls him a legend.
The songs he wrote were sung from the streets to the Spring Festival Gala; the plays he cast were from the Spring Festival to Cannes.
The woman who poured red wine on him that year relied on seventeen connections to say, "Mr. Chen, I was ignorant back then."
His assistant replied: "Mr. Chen is in a meeting."
I sent thirty-seven messages and received only one automatic reply:
"Read."
——
Someone asked him if he hated it.
He thought about it.
"Don't hate."
"Too far."
