No one expected that once you start accommodating someone, it becomes a regular thing.

Shao Mingyin certainly didn’t expect it. He thought it was just for one night, but every now and then, usually when he was about to start cooking dinner after returning home from work, he would hear a knock on the door. Shao Mingyin’s house, although old, had a good peephole, so he would peek out from the inside and unsurprisingly see Liang Zhen.

At first, Liang Zhen always brought his guitar. As soon as he entered the house, he would turn off Shao Mingyin’s “HomeEasy” and show off, saying he had learned something new, and couldn’t wait a moment to play it for him. While Shao Mingyin was still in the kitchen, he would play the guitar in the bedroom area, sometimes singing, sometimes just playing. He effortlessly played some technically demanding pieces without a single mistake. Heaven knows how he managed to pick up the guitar again in such a short time, and heaven knows how many times he had practiced before coming to Shao Mingyin’s place.

Shao Mingyin’s meals were simple, mostly consisting of frozen food and fried rice, except occasionally when he brought back takeout from the police canteen. Liang Zhen still enjoyed them heartily and after eating, he would energetically continue singing for Shao Mingyin.

He sang “Wanqing” for Shao Mingyin. Even though they were rock songs, his voice, accompanied only by the guitar, wasn’t hysterical at all; instead, it became softer and more soothing day by day. This might have diminished the power conveyed by the songs themselves, but Liang Zhen added his own unique touch to them.

He sang “The Night Covers the North China Plain” for Shao Mingyin while he was sweeping the floor, humming the tune of “Young Man Turning Away from Me” as he bent over with the broom. He sang “What Exactly Illuminates Our Dark Hearts” for Shao Mingyin while he was on the balcony hanging clothes. Instead of immediately coming in, Shao Mingyin listened to Liang Zhen under the light in the room, silently following the next line.

He sang many songs from Shijiazhuang and also from Lanzhou.

He sang “Bitter Artemisia,” he sang “Wild Child,” he sang about how the waters of the Yellow River keep flowing, flowing past homes, flowing past Lanzhou, singing about how if we had known earlier that the waters of the Yellow River were going to dry up, why the hell did we bother building iron bridges.

He also sang that song “Wild Child.”

It was the song he sang the most frequently, even more than “Lanzhou, Lanzhou.” The lyrics were just a few lines, and after listening to it several times, Shao Mingyin would hum along. But the feeling when he sang was completely different from Liang Zhen, and he couldn’t replicate Liang Zhen’s style.

The accent was one reason. When singing this song, Liang Zhen’s Lanzhou accent came out fully. Liang Zhen usually spoke standard Mandarin, only slipping into some Lanzhou dialect when cursing. When singing, it was impossible to tell he was from Lanzhou, but when singing songs from the Wild Child band, those inherent elements couldn’t be restrained.

He would sit cross-legged on Shao Mingyin’s bed—only when holding the guitar would he have the privilege to sit on Shao Mingyin’s bed. When strumming, his right shoulder would slightly tremble, as if possessed. His voice had a distinct characteristic of cleanliness, and his articulation was particularly clear, but when singing Lanzhou songs, his pronunciation deliberately became muddy, sounding as if he had smoked and drank. Such a tone and style were definitely not sophisticated, even a bit rustic.

Earthy.

It was a sound that immediately brought to mind the yellow loess slopes, the Yellow River passing through the city, seeing the northwest, seeing Gansu, seeing that Lanzhou, rooted in the soil.

Liang Zhen sang with great abandon, with the unique flair of a city’s underworld, as if his face was covered in dirt, his tears flying in the sky, his home in the wilderness, his songs unheard by anyone.

Then, he sang harmony more passionately than the parts with lyrics, his vocals completely devoid of technique, wild like seeds growing crazily in barren land.

He would stand up from the bed, he would walk towards Shao Mingyin. He told Shao Mingyin not to ask who he was when the mountains were high and the road was long, not to ask whom he believed under the sun, not to complain when it was cold or hungry about who he hated. He lowered his head, right in front of Shao Mingyin, almost rubbing noses, telling Shao Mingyin not to wait for flowers to bloom and fall to know whom he loved.

He sang “Wild Child,” he himself was a wild child from Lanzhou.

Gradually, Liang Zhen became unsatisfied with just the guitar. One day he brought a hand drum to Shao Mingyin’s house.

When he first entered, Shao Mingyin didn’t realize it was a drum. He thought Liang Zhen was uncomfortable sitting on a low stool, so he brought a chair over, but Liang Zhen didn’t cherish the new instrument very much and just sat on it like a stool.

“You’re quite prepared,” Shao Mingyin said while eating noodles. “Do you really consider this place your own home?”

“I just like coming to your place,” Liang Zhen said, tapping the edge of the drum with the hand not holding chopsticks. “Let me tell you, I’ve learned something really cool recently. I’ll show you in a bit.”

It wasn’t the first time Liang Zhen had performed instrumental pieces for Shao Mingyin, but it was the first time with a drum. The rhythmic feeling of the hand drum was indeed stronger in impact than the guitar, but because there were no other instruments accompanying it, it sounded good but also monotonous. After listening to him drumming for about ten minutes like he was on fire, Shao Mingyin couldn’t help but ask what the name of the piece was.

Liang Zhen blurted out, “Dance of Death.”

“Dance of Death?” Shao Mingyin raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Oh, come on! Are you doubting my pitch?” Liang Zhen felt challenged, took out his phone, and found a video of a band performing live, calling Shao Mingyin over.

They sat together on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching. Liang Zhen put one of the earphones into Shao Mingyin’s ear. He was hesitant, worrying that a light touch would make the earphone fall out and a forceful one would hurt him. Just as he hesitated, Shao Mingyin adjusted the earphone himself, gripping Liang Zhen’s fingers to hold it in place. During the whole process, Shao Mingyin kept his eyes on Liang Zhen’s phone as it loaded, while Liang Zhen kept glancing at Shao Mingyin’s ear nervously.

“Saltarello’s Dance of Death,” Shao Mingyin said with a yawn, stretching. “I thought it was the one in G minor.”

“What? G minor?” Liang Zhen was confused. He turned off the video and searched for keywords, finding out that there was also a famous piano piece with the same name.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought a drum,” Shao Mingyin recalled the melody he had just heard. “You should have brought an accordion.”

“Give me a break, officer,” Liang Zhen’s face fell, “I had to get up early and practice for several days just to learn the drum. If I worked hard, maybe I could learn the harmonica, but I have no foundation for any other instruments…” He looked at Shao Mingyin, who was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, and asked, “Or do you want to hear it?”

Shao Mingyin turned his head to look at Liang Zhen without speaking. For some reason, his eyes looked slightly red, shining under the light as if they were teary. Yet, Shao Mingyin had a playful smile on his face, as if recalling something happy. Liang Zhen couldn’t bear to interrupt and just watched. He couldn’t control his urge to touch Shao Mingyin, similar to how people in love can’t resist kissing after prolonged eye contact. Liang Zhen always felt like touching Shao Mingyin after watching him for a while. But Shao Mingyin didn’t like such physical jokes; he would react faster than Liang Zhen could initiate.

Liang Zhen had experienced Shao Mingyin’s quick reflexes once when he cheekily wanted to sleep on the big bed. Despite looking lean, Shao Mingyin was strong and agile, making Liang Zhen wonder if the physical requirements for street cops were this high now.

So, Liang Zhen only dared to lie down as well. Both had their thighs at the bed’s edge, only their upper bodies lying down. Shao Mingyin stared at the ceiling, while Liang Zhen watched him, admiring his double eyelids, elegant almond-shaped eyes, delicate nose, and smiling mouth. Shao Mingyin’s features were already soft, and under the room’s old-style incandescent light, his profile looked like it was highlighted. But his hair was still black, seemingly uncut for a while, slightly covering his ears. Liang Zhen couldn’t help but reach out to brush it aside, even knowing he might get slapped.

As he raised his hand, Shao Mingyin turned his head alertly, but he didn’t press down on his ear. He just watched Liang Zhen’s every move. Liang Zhen hesitated but still touched the hair near Shao Mingyin’s ear, finding it soft, warm, making him want to keep touching it.

Liang Zhen was someone who acted on feelings. Even knowing it was inappropriate, he couldn’t help but touch, having already thought of an excuse. He pretended to accidentally touch Shao Mingyin’s ear while adjusting the earphone.

Having taken advantage, Liang Zhen felt his face burning inexplicably. He stammered, “If you want to hear it, I can find a way.”

“How? It’s an accordion piece. If you had a piano foundation, maybe, but starting from scratch, your fingers wouldn’t be nimble enough.”

“If you want to hear it, I’ll find a way,” Liang Zhen stubbornly repeated, actually starting to ponder how. He then noticed something in Shao Mingyin’s words and asked, “Wait, can you play?”

Shao Mingyin took a quick breath, his eyes flickering. “Do I look like someone who can play an instrument?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Liang Zhen nodded, insisting, “Yes.”

Shao Mingyin didn’t respond. Lying on the inner side, his right arm inevitably touched Liang Zhen’s left. Before Liang Zhen could react, Shao Mingyin grabbed his hand. Liang Zhen’s eyes widened in surprise; this was the first time Shao Mingyin initiated physical contact, making his heart race like during a first hand-hold.

But holding hands wasn’t Shao Mingyin’s intention. His palm soon opened, fingers intertwining with Liang Zhen’s, the motion slightly ambiguous, tickling Liang Zhen’s palm. But as Liang Zhen felt what was there, any romantic thoughts quickly shattered.

Liang Zhen felt scars in Shao Mingyin’s palm.