It feels like a distant song from a dream, accompanied by a hint of piano music, gentle and hazy, drawing one into mist-like mories.
As we age, reminiscing becos an increasingly sorrowful affair, for every ti we awaken from sleep, and see the hair fallen from our hands and the aging face in the mirror, we increasingly realize that the sumr which was once sour and sweet like a li will never appear in our lives again.
The ti carelessly squandered in the past is like water splashed on the ground—no matter how hard you grasp, even if your fingers turn raw and bloody, it will never return to your hands.
Everything moves forward like a roaring train, countless images flight past swiftly, and those once-cherished, loathed, laughed-at, and wept-for things gradually beco forgotten strangers.
The piano sound remains, the fingers playing on the keys sotis leap, sotis fall, the delicate fingers, light pink nails, and unchanged skin remain just as they were twenty years ago. It feels as if simply watching that swaying figure at the piano can freeze my life at that most beautiful age.
This is a small class reunion, and there are over twenty people present, many wearing professional uniforms, so in relatively formal dresses, while others remain in simple plaid shirts, quietly sitting in the corner, observing the dreamy silhouette in the distance through slightly thick lenses over the nose.
"Hello, my na is Tilan."
In a long-ago sumr, during a break, two girls introduced themselves to a newly transferred classmate. One of the girls with black hair was a bit shy, but with encouragent from a companion, she bravely uttered the first words.
The boy across also seed nervous, wearing very thick glasses despite his young age, unable to look directly at the two girls who seed like princesses before him as insecurity spread like wild grass in his heart, feeling uncomfortable with light and wind.
He ought to remain in an unnoticed dark corner, not here.
However, he didn’t want the girl in front of him to show disappointnt, sensing that this girl too had gathered much courage to speak to him, and if he didn’t reply, it would likely also discourage her.
"My na is..." he started to introduce himself, but spoke too quickly due to nervousness, causing unclear articulation.
"My na is David, David, David." His face flushed as he tried to slow down his speech and repeated it several tis for her comprehension.
After finishing, it felt as though he had exhausted all his energy, lowering his head like an ostrich, feeling he hadn’t left a good impression though he had wanted to.
The faint regret mixed with bitter insecurity made him wish to find an opening to hide in, or perhaps he should have been colder, armoring himself against the lovable girl before him.
In those brief seconds, his mind seed to experience centuries of dynastic changes before realizing the girl hadn’t spoken for a while, cautiously raising his head.
Unexpectedly, his gaze t a pair of captivating eyes, dark like ink, filled with liveliness and curiosity, devoid of the scrutiny, impatience, or disdain he typically encountered, pure as a mountain stream, free from worldly biases and narrow views.
This beauty reaching deep into his heart, with just a glance, etched into his mory for many years, never to be forgotten.
Afterward, they exchanged more words, but the details faded from his mory. He vaguely recalled it was a group activity in class, and he ended up in a group with the girl.
During their school years, their exchanges totaled no more than twenty sentences; perhaps years later, she too had forgotten him.
Ti has passed; now, he’s nearly forty, and the silhouette at the piano remains as flawless and beautiful as rembered, still carrying a gentle and lively aura.
Regrettably, these twenty-plus years have not made him into any noteworthy figure, still just an ordinary mber rushing in the workplace, performing tedious and uninspired tasks. If he told colleagues he was attending the birthday party of a songstress tonight, he might be laughed at.
Yet, the silhouette playing the piano nearby did not make him a joke.
Moved, saddened, weathered, nostalgic, regretful, emotions mixed like spilled seasoning, causing him to sigh unconsciously.
But today, let go of the withered, yellowed insecurity and regret, quietly listening to the rare song and piano; this beautiful experience, if lost to senseless thoughts, would surely produce new regrets.
...
The song enveloped, gentle and dreamy, grasping the attention of everyone in the room; so with nostalgic expressions, so with faint smiles, so seeming dream-like, so seeming to resolve certain matters in the song.
The fingertips under the warm lighting leapt like butterflies along the song’s soft singing, and the girl closed her eyes to reminisce. Scenes from mory unfolded, chasing a large, colorful oil painting whose solid strokes felt sowhat rough to the touch.
...
Gradually, the singing ceased, the fingers gently touched the last note, leaving behindan echo of longing and nostalgia.
The performance concluded; the girl stood slowly, her back to the audience, placing her hands softly beside her, lightly adjusting her dress, her subtle movents held a trace of childhood cuteness. Then she turned around, and her eyes, like orchids in the night, exuded a gentle tranquility.
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