Three years.
Snow fell twelve times in Qingcheng. He waited 1,095 days for that person.
He tucked away the stable job his grandfather had spent his whole life hoping he would get, then bought a standing-room ticket.
He locked the songs he had written over three years in a drawer. The chorus had a line that went, “Falling into your eyes.”
Later, she got married.
Later, his grandfather passed away.
Later, he was two million in debt, delivering food for sixteen hours a day and crouching by the roadside at three in the morning to eat instant noodles.
Someone asked if it had been worth it.
He didn’t answer.
He only tuned his strings.
Six years later.
Fanyin Media was valued at a hundred billion.
The music industry called him a godfather; the business world called him a legend.
His songs went from street corners to the Spring Festival Gala; the films he invested in went from the Lunar New Year box office to Cannes.
The woman who had once splashed red wine on him sent word through seventeen layers of connections: “Mr. Chen, I was immature back then.”
His assistant replied, “Mr. Chen is in a meeting.”
She sent thirty-seven messages and received only one automatic reply:
“Read.”
Someone asked him if he hated her.
He thought for a moment.
“No.”
“She’s too far away now.”
