His name is Lu Tinglan. Seventeen years old, piano genius, aorta 4.2 Cm. The doctor said it was a time bomb that could explode at any time.
Her name was Lin Tingwan. Seventeen years old, concertmaster, Paganini's "The Bell" is his signature. Her music was filled with her mother's expectations, and not a single word belonged to her.
They met in the piano room late at night. She said, "Will you come and lock the door tomorrow?" He said, "Every day."
From that day on, the music he played on the radio every night became the song she had practiced that day. Eight notes, like an unfinished sentence. She practiced B-flat until her fingers bled, just to correct what he said when they first met, "You raised one-eighth."
They haven't said they like it yet. But the rumors arrived first. A secretly taken photo was posted on Tieba, saying that she was "posting a freak." For the first time, he got angry and posted under his real name to refute the rumors. The last sentence: "She wants my life more than all of you."
In the early morning of the third day after the post was posted, he collapsed in front of the radio station's mixer. The last sentence in the recording: "I can't play the crescendo in the ninth measure. The rest will be provided to you in the next life."
She wove the cord of his longevity into the bow. From then on, I could no longer play Allegro with my right hand.
Many years later, she became a music therapist, specializing in teaching children with heart disease to ring bells. A boy asked: "Sister, why is there an old rope tied to the bow?"
She said: "Because this person still owes me a small debt."
Three seconds. Enough for him to play that crescendo for the rest of his life.
She waited.
Intention: Being seen itself is a kind of salvation