In the cold and desolate ancient city at dawn, only a few cleaners could be seen on the streets.

It was this kind of transition between light and darkness.

After dawn, the city would slowly wake up, and after dusk, it would gradually fall asleep. Most people followed the rhythm of the day. Shi Ye found this moment representing beginnings and endings a bit unpleasant, as beginnings made people uneasy and endings made them melancholy.

The transition during waiting was even more annoying. A new day, watching the world grow dim together, was truly boring.

Too quiet.

The loneliness that surged at that moment was inescapable. Walking in the gradually brightening streets after being drunk was not a pleasant experience for Shi Ye; it reminded him of the years when he was destitute. It wasn’t just about being poor financially, but about having nowhere to go, being alone and helpless. There was a lack of material goods, a lack of spiritual richness, a lack of everything, living like death. It was common to sleep under a bridge or on the street, walking from dusk till dawn, and then from dawn till dusk.

Shi Ye walked dazedly. Near the city gate, he saw a very disheveled man squatting on the ground eating an apple. The man had a scruffy beard, shoulder-length hair, and looked dirty overall. Next to his feet was a violin case, probably used to collect money.

He suddenly felt a bit tired, so he sat down next to the man, taking the violin off his back and tossing it to the ground.

The man, noticing Shi Ye still wearing a mask, mumbled as he ate his apple, “A bit dramatic.”

Shi Ye didn’t say anything. He handed the man the bag of preserved plums given to him by Sheng Xia’s mother and said, “Got any more apples? Let’s trade.”

Perhaps due to some shared aura, both being guitar players, even though they were strangers, Shi Ye found it much easier to converse with him.

The man chuckled and pulled out another apple from his pocket, handing it to Shi Ye. “Here you go. Little bro, planning to perform here or something? You should try a different spot. Judging by your accent, you’re not from around here. Let me show you a better spot, over at the foreigner street.”

Accepting the apple but not eating it, Shi Ye replied, “Thanks, but I’m not performing.”

“Not performing? Then why lug around a guitar so early in the morning?” The man laughed. “Think carrying a guitar makes you look cool?”

“Yeah, pretty dumb,” Shi Ye chuckled along. “Isn’t performing fun?”

“Fun? Performing isn’t as easy as you think. It’s a career! There are probably plenty of snooty singers out there who don’t have half the talent we street performers do,” the man explained. “You gotta fight for your turf, compete with others in the same line of work, have an eye for good spots, know how to handle the city management, and have good mental resilience. Thick skin is a must!”

Shi Ye listened to the man ramble for a while before asking, “How long have you been performing?”

“Five years,” the man chuckled. “I’m thirty this year. I used to perform in Chongqing, then went to Nanjing, and last year I came to Yunnan. Business wasn’t as good in Lijiang as it is in Dali, so I stayed here. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Beijing,” Shi Ye declined the cigarette offered by the man. “Haven’t you ever thought about settling down, starting a family or something? Just drifting like this indefinitely?”

The man seemed to find something extremely amusing. “What did you say?”

Shi Ye was taken aback by the man’s reaction. “I said, haven’t you thought about settling down? Buying a house, getting married, having a family?”

After speaking, he realized he might sound quite mundane. Although there was nothing wrong with such mundanity, it was simply part of life.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, the man looked at Shi Ye through the smoke. “They call us wandering musicians. What’s a wandering musician with a family?”

Shi Ye hesitated for a moment before vaguely replying, “But everyone needs a home.”

“Not having one isn’t such a big deal. I’m used to being free. Wherever I am, that’s my home, and my guitar is my wife,” the man said with a smirk as he smoked. “Little bro, ever read Shen Congwen? The old man once said: ‘Beautiful things in this world have no home; shooting stars, fireflies, falling flowers, they all have no home. Have you ever seen someone raise a phoenix? A shooting star has its own destination. We wandering musicians also have places we need to go.'”

Shi Ye listened in astonishment before forcing a smile and saying, “You’re quite cultured.”

“That’s right.”

The man flicked his cigarette butt. “I used to be a poet when I was young.”

After finishing the conversation with Shi Ye, the man rolled up his blanket and went back to sleep.

Dawn was approaching.

Shi Ye took off his mask, wiped the apple casually, and began to eat.

In between bites, he took out his phone to check for messages. His phone had gotten wet a few days ago, and after being repaired, it seemed to be slower. As soon as he opened it, there was a flood of messages, over fifty from Niu Xiaojun, as well as from Shen Zui, Gao Ce, some familiar, some unfamiliar.

Not a single one was what he wanted to see.

After a moment’s thought, Shi Ye closed the messaging app, opened the browser, and hesitantly typed “homosexuality” into the search bar.

Seeing those words, he shook his hand and deleted them.

Then, he opened his contacts and found a number that wasn’t saved but he had memorized long ago. Perhaps afraid of hesitating, Shi Ye dialed the number directly.

There were a total of 8 rings. Every second of waiting felt like his heartbeat was accelerating. But as soon as he heard his father’s voice on the other end of the phone, Shi Ye immediately hung up.

He threw the unfinished apple to the ground, buried his head, and hugged himself.

Some words couldn’t be said to others, but even whispering them to oneself would feel shameful. He lacked the canned fruit of childhood, the starry sky and universe of dreams, and lost the hero he once trusted in his life.

What to say?

Should he say, “I miss you a lot, I hate you”? Should he say, “I can’t sleep, I take pills every day, I drink every day, I’m not doing well”? Should he say, “I’m hesitant about the future, it seems like I’ve developed feelings for another boy, I might be gay”? Should he say, “I seem to have grown up, but I always feel lost in my life”?

Or should he ask about the rumors? Should he ask if you’re really gay? Should he ask if you rejected Mom and me because of another man? Or should he ask if homosexuality is really hereditary? After all, he thought he would never like boys in his life, he thought he would feel disgusted, he thought he would want to vomit, but he still hugged a boy.

Because of you?? Because you’re gay?

Or should he ask if you ever loved Mom, loved me? Should he ask if all those years of tenderness were fake, were an act? Should he ask if you’re a jerk who deceived my mother into marriage? Should he ask why you haven’t contacted me for so many years? Are you feeling guilty or do you think this son is unnecessary? Since it’s unnecessary, why did you invite me to your wedding with another man?

None of it? Or maybe you can teach me what to do? Tell me what’s right, what’s wrong. Tell me how to live my life, who to love, how to become a decent adult?

You were so tall in my eyes, and your gaze on others was so high, why do people say you’re a jerk?

Dad.

Father.

At that moment, Shi Ye couldn’t face the surging emotions, but he knew he needed an outlet—he gasped for air, almost subconsciously opened the guitar case, and took out the guitar. Yes, when he held the guitar, Shi Ye finally felt a sense of security.

Nothing is real, eternal, unchanging, or unshakable. The only thing accompanying him was the guitar, the chords, the notes and the stage, the lonely scores, and the misunderstood aviator.

He started strumming. The chords came out instinctively, and when the song emerged, Shi Ye realized he was playing “Universe”. That song was written during the most bewildering time of his life, when his parents left him in Beijing, with nothing, no money, no future, no dreams, no love, nothing at all.

Emotions flowed to his fingertips. He felt that the harder he strummed, the stronger he became, as if he was channeling all the pride, shame, joy, and sorrow of these years through his hands. Then he began to sing. He needed an outlet.

Shi Ye’s voice was similar to the feeling of playing the guitar—sharp and crisp, with a cold edge. It had been a long time since he last sang, and his throat was hoarse, sounding as if there were bits of ice in his voice.

“Who tore through the sky, waving down the stars—”

The sleeping man was awakened but didn’t look up. After listening for a while, he chuckled and said, “With your shitty voice, you’re trying to sing like the Aviator? It’s too terrible, the strings aren’t even tuned properly, you need to change them!”

Ignoring the man, Shi Ye continued to sing, tears streaming down his face.

Why couldn’t he cry? He just wanted to cry now. No matter how indifferent or strong he appeared to others, whether he was 3, 13, 23, or 43 years old, whether he was a man or a woman, ugly or beautiful, he just wanted to cry.

Unable to control. People are strange. When his parents left, he didn’t cry. When he couldn’t afford to eat, he didn’t cry. When he was scolded mercilessly, he still didn’t cry. But on a gradually brightening street in the ancient city, he couldn’t hold back his tears.

It didn’t feel like sadness, but his eyes stung, ached, as if he wanted to bring out something pent up inside his body.

“Xiao Ye, listen to Dad, the carbon elements that make up the body were produced three seconds after the Big Bang, iron elements need time to cool before they can form, and the gold elements in the ring your mother wore were formed by a supernova explosion eight times the mass of the sun. Life is not eternal, but the universe and matter are constantly regenerating, and Dad’s love for you is the same. Go to sleep now, tonight you will dream of the universe, son.”

…

‘You, vast and endless, me, with nothing—’

…

“Shi Ye, want some canned fruit? Mom brought it for you!”

“Xiao Ye, Dad is going abroad, I might…”

…

“Shi Ye, I hope you understand one thing… Your dad and I have reached the end of our fate, but we have always been family, Mom will always love you.”

‘The world before me burns, the universe ignites—’

Without love, it’s all fake. There’s no such thing as deep love, it all burns… It all rolls away. What tomorrow, what fame is within reach, what fan schedules, what jobs, what family… They can all roll away and die… They’re all fake, they can’t be kept, they can all roll away.

All! Of! Them! Roll!

Roll.

‘Swallowing you, also drowning me—’

Shi Ye didn’t finish singing that song, his throat was completely hoarse. There was a tearing sensation in his throat, as if a knife had slashed through it, pouring oil and lighting it on fire. Swallowing, it felt like there was a bit of a blood taste.

He stared blankly for a long time before suddenly lowering his head to see that the strings of his guitar had been broken by him. He was sweating profusely, his eyes were red, and he felt like he had walked through an entire century.

There was blood on his fingers, he had exerted too much force, but he didn’t feel any pain when he played just now. Those drops of red fell on the guitar surface, as if mocking him—Shi Ye, you’re really pitiful.

The man sleeping beside him finally commented, “I say, you shouldn’t sing anymore, it’s really bad.”

Shi Ye lowered his head, exhaustedly covering his face.