Simple and pure, unadorned in every way, the weathered, husky voice softly sang poignant verses. There were no dramatic highs or lows, no tempestuous storms, no gales or downpours. It was just a faint sense of emotion, a touch of sadness, a hint of bitterness, a tinge of regret, a trace of sighs... It was as if a winged spirit, unadorned, fluttered between the lush forest and the dazzling sunlight, unexpectedly striking the softest part deep within the heart, and before one could react, vision became blurred.
Everyone can sing, but not everyone can narrate a story with their voice, and even fewer can touch souls with their singing.
As the song concluded, Renly sat quietly in his chair, cradling his guitar, without uttering a word. The entire recording studio fell into silence, and this tranquility seemed to slowly permeate the air, as if time had lost its significance.
"...Very good." The person sitting in front of the control panel spoke up, but his voice was somewhat hoarse, with a faint nasal tone. However, he quickly realized that Renly couldn't hear him. He hurriedly pressed the red button on the desk and spoke into the microphone, "Very good. I mean, very good." He repeated the same words several times, sounding somewhat flustered. He released his right hand but then immediately pressed it down again. "Renly, when was this song created?"
"Not long ago. It's a song written by parents for their child." Renly's voice carried a hint of melancholy, as if he had fallen into his own memories.
This song was inspired by Derek and Ellie. In them, Renly saw shades of Ding Yanan.
Being parents was always like this—carefully nurturing their children, watching over them for a lifetime, yet fearing that their earnestness might make them helpless. There would come a day when they would suddenly realize that life could not be planned, the future could not be predicted, and instead of being tied down and stagnating, it was better to let their children spread their wings. They should stand guard behind them, providing a secure haven with their hands, allowing them to soar through storms. Even when they were hurt, tired, or lonely, they could still find a place of refuge, sheltered from the world's tempests.
In a previous life, after the doctor declared his paraplegia, he began to blame and resent his mother, even hate her. He refused to eat, to open his mouth, to speak, or even open his eyes. He was like an ostrich, trying to bury his head in the sand. But with his eyes closed, that was his only escape.
Faced with his stubbornness and rebellion, his mother never gave up. She stood by his bedside without complaint, taking care of his daily needs. She silently endured his resentment and pain, until he grew tired, exhausted, and finally came to his senses. He finally opened his mouth and said, "I want water." It was the first time he had spoken to her in a month, and his voice was harsh and devoid of warmth.
She silently prepared warm water, inserted a straw, and helped him drink. Afterward, she wanted to leave but didn't dare go too far. She walked to the window instead. Clenching her teeth, she let the tears fall silently. It was the first time he had seen her vulnerability since the accident. She hugged herself tightly, her slender shoulders almost swallowed by the glaring sunlight, crying silently. It was the first time he had seen her vulnerability since the accident. She hugged herself tightly, her slender shoulders almost swallowed by the glaring sunlight, crying silently. She was like that, and so were Derek and Ellie. Their greatest wish was for Hazel to regain her health, but this wish was as difficult as reaching the sky. All they could do was use their hands to build a safe haven for Hazel, hoping that smiles and happiness would return to her face. On this thorny path of life, they walked firmly towards each new day.
People are often trapped within their own world, unable to dispel the fog until they've lost something precious. But by then, it's often too late. Hindsight is clearer than foresight.
[
So many times I cross the line to get to you
No one loves you quite the way I do
Try to understand the songs that I sing to you
No one loves you quite the way I do
]
This was the song Renly dedicated to Derek and Ellie, to Hazel, and to every child in Sinai Hospital. In his previous life, he had missed it, so this time, he didn't want to see others miss it again.
Herbert Jones opened his mouth, tears shimmering in his eyes, looking quite embarrassed. "Renly... Are you sure you're only twenty-one?" A song written by parents for their child? Did Renly have a child now?
This surprised question immediately lightened the atmosphere in the recording studio, and everyone couldn't help but smile.
Then Herbert heard a voice behind him. "Not only time can leave gifts. In addition to time, there are books, newspapers, articles. People read not only for their careers or sustenance but also for wisdom."
Everyone turned their heads and saw a stranger standing at the door. Nathan couldn't help but exclaim, "Roy! How did you get here?" Everyone suddenly understood that this must be a friend of Renly's.
Renly remained seated in the recording studio and waved a greeting toward Roy. Then he spoke into the microphone again. "Herbert, focus. So, what needs to be corrected? We're recording now, not chatting in a pub."
"Yes, yes," Herbert responded, snapping back to attention. He took a deep breath and composed himself, resuming the discussion with Renly.
Roy then entered the recording studio, closed the door behind him, and glanced at the three strangers on the couch. However, none of them seemed inclined to greet him. Roy turned to Nathan, who shrugged, his eyes concealing a deeper meaning. He whispered, "Why are you here?"
Roy settled in beside Nathan, explaining in a low voice, "I didn't have anything to do today, so I thought I'd come over and see what's going on." But his peripheral vision kept returning to the two people in conversation. Their discussion wasn't hushed; it proceeded at a normal volume.
"How's it going? How does it feel?" The words came from an older man wearing a plaid shirt and a bowtie. Despite the sweltering June weather, he seemed to have a rigid and conservative personality.
Seated in the center was a middle-aged man, approximately forty-five, with a receding hairline that revealed a shiny Mediterranean on his forehead. The few remaining strands of hair attempted to be arranged neatly but still stood on end. These small details suggested that he was typically a relaxed and carefree person, not overly concerned with appearances. His simple gray T-shirt paired with jeans confirmed this impression.
"Wow, that was truly outstanding," the middle-aged man remarked, his approval evident in the subtle arch of his brows. "Everyone knows he's an excellent actor, but very few know he's an exceptional singer as well."
"In my opinion, he's wasted as an actor; his true talent lies in being a singer," the older man stated emphatically, without any pretense, and with a certain air of grandiosity. Seated beside him, the middle-aged man neither agreed nor disagreed, simply watching with a genial smile. The old man went on, "So, what do you think? We've already recorded sixteen songs. Each one is a masterpiece. We have more than enough material for an album. If you're interested, you can listen to the entire album master tape."
"Sixteen songs?" The middle-aged man furrowed his brow slightly, seeming somewhat reluctant, but after a moment's contemplation, he decided not to pursue the matter further. His thoughts remained enigmatic, and he shifted the conversation instead. "George, you should know that there's no market for such songs. Currently, in all of North America, no record label dares to produce folk music. Even Jason Mraz faces challenges. If you want to make folk music, you should go to England."
"But what about "Cleopatra"? You can't possibly be unaware of it," the old man responded confidently, showing no signs of panic. "Moreover, Renly is not just any singer. He's a highly acclaimed actor. All we need is some straightforward promotion. We're confident that if someone notices this album, word of mouth will spread, and sales won't be a problem."
"You also said he's an actor, not a singer," the middle-aged man held his ground, smiling amiably. Then, he changed the topic. "Of course, I believe this is an excellent album, and it may even win acclaim from music critics."
"But," there's often a "but" behind such words, and indeed, the middle-aged man continued, "you should understand that nowadays, what sells well are pop, electronic, and dance songs. Audiences know that these are disposable songs; they'll forget them in no time. These songs lack substance and are merely meant for enjoyment in nightclubs and bars. But the audience doesn't care; that's what they need. It's the era of fast food. Quick consumption and simple entertainment are the keys to success."
Roy couldn't help but raise his head and look at the middle-aged man. His gaze remained earnest, void of any arrogance. Instead, a tinge of regret and helplessness crept into his tone.
"An excellent singer, an outstanding album, doesn't guarantee excellent sales. We all hope to find a balance between art and commerce. We don't want to compromise on quality, but, George, you should also understand that this is an album with artistic merit and not commercial appeal. During the production process, you've abandoned all commercial aspects and focused solely on art. I admit that's commendable. However, you can't expect companies like ours to foot the bill for art."
The middle-aged man's words seemed to be the final straw that broke the camel's back. Roy could clearly see the old man's shoulders and spirit droop. The vigor that had once animated him appeared to be gradually fading, leaving behind a sense of melancholy and desolation.
Roy carefully considered his tone and manner and then spoke, "Producing a commercial album is not difficult, but creating an artistic album is far from simple. Everyone can make a commercial album, but not everyone can craft an artistic one."