A sandglass sat on the piano, its sand grains sliding through the narrow neck, falling from top to bottom, one grain, then another.
As the last grain of sand dropped into the lower half of the sandglass, Falsen's movents gradually slowed down.
With the final note struck, the song also happened to stop and end at this precise mont.
The ti difference between the two events was not long, less than ten seconds.
"Hah..."
He let out a soft breath, feeling the soreness and numbness in his fingers.
Falsen had worked here for a long ti. Here, on this small stage covered with thick plush carpet and bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, he had spent countless such cycles.
He didn't need to look up to check the clock face; he was already accustod to knowing when he needed to work and when he could rest.
He didn't even need to look at the sandglass to know it was now his break ti.
Few people used sandglasses nowadays; people preferred to check clocks or pocket watches directly.
Especially gold pocket watches, which better reflected a person's noble status.
But Falsen was an exception; he preferred sandglasses.
It wasn't that he was so kind of retro enthusiast, but rather, he always felt this sensation made him very comfortable.
The sand, divided into two batches, slowly gathered between flips under the influence of gravity, with particles dispersing and then converging to beco the sa pile of sand.
He always felt this scene had an indescribable beauty to it.
He liked convergence, whatever kind it was—gravitational attraction, gravity, coincidence, fate between people, or even artificial intervention...
In short, he liked any kind of convergence.
As the lodious lody paused, the subtle conversations in the restaurant, the light clinks of silverware against bone china, even the faint sound of carriage wheels outside the window, all seed to be amplified a few degrees.
Falsen lifted his hands from the keys, picked up the water glass nearby, and took a sip.
A dull ache from maintaining precise movents for a long ti was faintly emanating from his knuckles and wrists.
After drinking, he put down the glass and habitually gently flexed his fingers.
Today was his last day working at the Flora Restaurant.
However, even though today was his last day at Flora, he still wouldn't slack off; he would seriously complete today's work.
The news ca sowhat suddenly, yet it wasn't entirely without warning.
The good-natured boss, Mr. Ptolemy—that always smiling gentleman with considerable artistic taste who trusted him greatly—had been bedridden due to illness for so ti.
The restaurant's daily affairs were temporarily taken over by his brother-in-law, Mr. Percival, who had hurried over from out of town.
Mr. Percival was a typical, efficiency-and-profit-first pragmatist. He wasn't exactly a bad person, he just had no pursuit for music, art, and the like, nor did he see any use in these things.
And indeed, that was the reality; among the middle class, no one went to a restaurant to listen to songs.
As for those truly respectable upper-class nobles, they wouldn't choose to co to a small restaurant like Flora anyway.
The expensive grand piano occupying considerable space, the specially laid wooden stage, and Falsen, the perforr whose salary clearly didn't match his skill and whose looks couldn't be called good.
Neither Falsen's skill nor his appearance made Mr. Percival, the newcor, think Falsen had the qualification to stay.
But that was indeed true; if judged solely by skill level, Falsen really didn't have the qualification to stay here.
"Beautiful lodies are certainly important, but they can be achieved in a more economical way. The phonograph, gentlen, the phonograph, the latest model, truly high-tech. It doesn't need rest, doesn't need a salary, and doesn't occupy our precious space! Imagine, clearing out these spots could fit at least three more four-person tables! Getting more guests to leave their money at Flora, that's the real 'music'."
That's what the boss's brother-in-law said.
But Falsen didn't mind; he could find decent work anywhere anyway.
This was probably his talent; whichever shop he went to, that shop's custor base would suddenly beco very good.
A fact bordering on an "urban legend" circulated privately among the shop owners on this bustling comrcial street: whichever restaurant, café, or salon managed to hire Falsen Boles to perform would, in the following days, always see its custor flow quietly climb in an inexplicable way, the atmosphere would beco exceptionally harmonious, and even the turnover would rise accordingly.
The rise of Flora, Mr. Ptolemy often half-jokingly said, owed much to Falsen's piano playing.
This was sothing known throughout the entire comrcial street; it was just that the boss's brother-in-law from out of town didn't know. The bedridden boss probably also didn't have ti to instruct his brother-in-law to look after a dispensable pianist.
But he didn't plan to explain anything; after all, other shops had long offered him higher prices to win him over. The reason Falsen chose to stay wasn't that he couldn't find a better place, but purely out of gratitude for Mr. Ptolemy's recognition back in the day. That gentleman, when Falsen desperately needed money at the very beginning, withstood so pressure and gave him this respectable job and a place to stay.
This kindness deserved his loyalty in return.
But since soone was actively driving him away, he naturally wouldn't mind earning more money.
Mr. Ptolemy was bedridden, and Mr. Percival had actively drawn a clear line.
In Falsen's heart, there wasn't the slightest bit of resentnt about this; instead, he felt a sense of relief.
Because he could finally, without any burden, embrace those long-awaited, more lucrative opportunities.
After all, he really needed money, a lot of money. A heavy, secret reason buried deep in his heart drove him to accumulate every single sien and yur almost greedily.
He could always very easily find good jobs.
He thought, perhaps this wonderful [Convergence] was gathering the money he needed around him.
Thinking of this made him like [Convergence] even more.
In a daze, he seed to feel a certain gaze and instinctively glanced back.
But no one was looking at him from behind; there weren't even many tables with custors behind him.
Falsen's gaze swept unconsciously over the currently rather empty restaurant.
In Reins, lunchti didn't have a "peak period"; this restaurant had very few custors from start to finish at noon.
Falsen's gaze passed over a few sporadic tables of custors and finally, as if guided by so unseen force, landed on a certain window-side seat.
The custors at this table seed to have just finished eating and were tidying up, preparing to leave.
Beside that table covered with a white linen tablecloth, only one custor and several plates with leftovers remained now.
It was a table for only two custors. One custor had already left; the other custor had his back to Falsen and was tilting his head back, downing the last of the wine in his glass in one gulp.
The custor smacked his lips, looking not very satisfied with it.
Falsen had a strong impression of these custors because they had tipped him.
One yur, to be honest, was quite a lot.
And coincidentally, he needed a lot, a lot of money.
It was really lucky to encounter these two generous custors on his last day working at Flora.
But then, his luck had always been pretty good.
He had a mind to thank them, but he didn't have ti. Quite a pity; he only had a five-minute break, so it was better not to disturb them.
They seed to be nobles. Though their attire wasn't luxurious, an ordinary family probably couldn't spare one yur as a tip. He even heard the waiter had just received a full four yur tip; truly enviable.
He didn't particularly like nobles; for people of such status, he always felt maintaining an appropriate distance and respect was wiser.
Oh, that custor seed to be leaving too.
Under Falsen's gaze, Samuel put down the empty glass, picked up his cane, casually put on his hat, and also left directly.
What even he himself didn't notice was a slight bulge on the back of his neck, as if a tiny worm had burrowed inside.
The bulge squird twice and began drilling into his bone.
Suddenly, his ear twitched, as if he had heard so sound.
"Hehe..."
His neck felt a bit itchy. He blankly adjusted his sitting posture, freeing one hand to scratch the back of his neck, but found nothing.
Withdrawing his gaze, he looked at the glass in his hand.
Because he had just taken a sip of water, a few scattered water droplets remained on the inner wall of the glass.
Several tiny water droplets were sliding down the transparent glass inner wall.
Under his gaze, two water droplets happened to draw close to each other. On their respective winding paths, they unexpectedly t at a certain intersection.
They lightly touched and instantly, without any obstruction, rged into one, becoming a larger, fuller, more substantial droplet.
A strange, pure sense of pleasure quietly arose. The corner of his mouth almost subconsciously curved upward into a tiny arc.
Yes, this was [Convergence]; this was also part of [Convergence].
The world seed to beco exceptionally harmonious at this mont.
His mood beca very good in this instant, exceptionally good.
Convergence... so beautiful...
The brief five-minute break soon ended.
Falsen gently flipped the sandglass. The fine sand grains once again poured down from the inverted cone under gravity, beginning a new journey.
Ah, journey...
He had actually always wanted to be a traveler...
But he could never manage to leave this city.
He was lucky, but in this matter, he was always unsuccessful.
He placed the empty glass back in its spot and suspended his hands above the piano keys once more.
Fingertips descended, and a new piano piece began.
Just work a bit longer, until the three o'clock afternoon tea ti begins, until the three o'clock bell tolls from the spire of the distant church, then he could leave.
His working hours were from 10 AM to 3 PM, a total of five hours.
Because after afternoon tea ti, the restaurant didn't need him to help attract custors anymore; the restaurant's seats would even be insufficient, requiring a long queue to form at the entrance.
Mr. Percival probably thought his family's restaurant had so special attraction, right? He hoped the custor flow wouldn't drop too drastically after he left.
Falsen genuinely felt sorry for his boss from the bottom of his heart, not cursing him, as there was no need for that.
After getting off work, he still needed to go to another workplace; there, a lucrative "part-ti job" that only began after nightfall was waiting for him.
Of course, it was legitimate work.
After all, though he really needed money, he still wasn't prepared to play with "rich lady's happy balls," nor was he prepared to be, well, "taken advantage of."
"Hah..."
While playing the piano, he continuously let his thoughts wander to combat the boredom of doing repetitive things over a long period.
It wouldn't go wrong; after all, he had long morized the scores by heart and could play without looking at the sheet music.
"Hehe..."
Suddenly, he heard a few light laughs.
The laughter was very close to him, almost right by his ear.
Falsen turned his head curiously, though his hands didn't stop moving.
His gaze swept over the empty restaurant with only a few scattered tables of custors.
Waiters moved silently, everything enveloped in the lazy, respectable tranquility unique to the afternoon.
Nothing was unusual. No one was looking at him, nothing was moving, not even the wind.
Not finding who made the laugh, there was no one near him.
Recalling carefully, though the laughter just now seed to appear by his ear, for a mont he couldn't really tell from which direction it ca.
Probably an illusion...
Falsen shook his head.
Then, a few chuckling sounds seed to ring by his ear again, or perhaps directly in his mind.
"Not an illusion. You should trust your judgnt, dear."
His movents suddenly halted, the piano music cut off mid-flow.
After less than a second of astonishnt, Falsen quickly resud the music.
His mouth opened slightly as he asked in a low voice:
"Who are you?"
The voice was very soft, so soft that only he could probably hear it, quickly drowned out by the piano music.
For so reason, he intuitively felt the other party should be able to hear it.
Sure enough, a response ca quickly.
Again, directly appearing in his mind.
"? Probably a parasite?"
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