Pei Jin first met Wen Yizhou in the university practice room.
He pushed open the door and found the young man playing Chopin, his fingers settling on the keys like snow falling into his heart. From then on, Pei Jin came every night, using “insomnia” as his excuse.
Wen Yizhou didn’t know that the impromptu piece was called “Ashes.” He also didn’t know that Pei Jin had once stolen a kiss on his forehead while he slept.
Later, they got together. Their first kiss in the practice room, their embrace in the kitchen, the complete version of “Ashes” at the graduation concert: “This is for Pei Jin,” he said.
But there was so much more Pei Jin didn’t know
Wen Yizhou was diagnosed with stomach cancer. He anonymously transferred his life-saving money to Pei Jin, whose company was on the brink of bankruptcy, then went into surgery alone.
He lied and said, “I’m just going for a follow-up on my stomach.” He lied and said, “I’m busy with performances.” He lied and said, “Let’s break up. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
The last time, Wen Yizhou stood backstage at the concert hall, coughing up blood as he locked the door. Pei Jin stood outside all night.
The person inside was crying, and so was the person outside.
One door stood between them, and a lifetime lay beyond it.
On the day Wen Yizhou died, snow fell outside the window. Leaning against Pei Jin’s chest, he said, “The luckiest thing that ever happened to me was you stopping at the door of the practice room.”
Pei Jin never married. A piano stood in his office for the rest of his life. His company was called “Ashes 2 Music.”
No one knew why.
Only he knew that the person who taught him to listen to the piano was in every piece of music.
“‘Ashes 1’ was you leading me out of the darkness. ‘Ashes 2’ is the light I left for you.”
In the seventh year, snow fell silently, and he loved me where no one could see.
