In the fourth year of Jian'an, there was snow in Wancheng.
Xiao Qiao was playing the piano in the pavilion, and in the middle of the long chant, he paused seventeen times.
No one heard it. Zhou Yu heard it.
"Why was there so urgent at that place?"
"After practicing for three months, I still can't get it right."
Later, when he conquered all over the world, his letters always included one sentence: Has that piece of music been stabilized?
She didn't reply to a letter.
In the year of Red Cliff, an epidemic broke out in Wancheng, and there were rumors that he died in battle.
She sat down and played the piece again.
Bounce to the middle and hold it firmly.
Then tell the whole family: He is not dead. She has only taught this piece to one person.
He came back from the war.
The days go on.
The strings will still break, the letters will still come,
That piece of music that I have been practicing for three months will take many more years to play.
A piano tune, sixty years of snow.
From snow falling in Wancheng to ups and downs in troubled times.
Her story has just begun.
Intention: One piece of piano music, sixty years of snow.