When he was fifteen, he fell onstage. Getting back up, he laughed and said, "The stage is too slippery."
When he was twenty-five, he returned to the stage. He could no longer see, but his steps were steady. He knew someone was waiting half a step to his right, neither drawing closer nor backing away, waiting for eleven years.
Some called Yan Zhi a producer; others called him a musical genius. Only Lu Qingyan knew his secret: he always held a cup of water at exactly 42 degrees, always had an old banknote folded into a square in his pocket, and always kept a piano tuned in the practice room.
He had done so many things, but never once said a word about them.
So Lu Qingyan thought that once he had walked every road there was to walk, he would ask that person one thing. But before then, he had to learn to walk through the dark, toward him.
