The Guitar continued to play. Everything in front of the Five-Two-Zero milk tea shop was utterly quiet, yet a faint current of sorrow and lament ran through that silence.
Some of the boys' eyes reddened, as though they had caught a glimpse of themselves.
Some of the girls choked back sobs and shed tears, as though there were memories they could not bear to revisit.
Not a single person made a sound. After hearing Jun Wangchen play earlier, they had already learned what it meant to hear music from heaven.
You were the desolation of passing years, the regret of the boundless heavens, the longing that haunted my dreams through all life's changes. Only after passing countless dazzling lights and walking through bustling streets did I learn that your city was not mine, and the one you loved for a lifetime was not me.
Why could love in our grandparents' generation last sixty years?
Because when something broke in their day, all they thought about was fixing it, while all we ever think about is replacing it.
As sighs rippled through the crowd, the Guitar's melody changed again. It echoed with the shadows of passing years, the song of the wind, the grace of the moon, and a thousand whispered words that could never say it all.
One day, you got a problem wrong on the blackboard. Your answer was wildly off, and you stepped down from the podium, flushed with embarrassment, wondering whether your classmates would laugh at you.
One day, you saw your closest friend chatting with a classmate you did not particularly like. Every so often, the two girls turned to look at you, so you began wondering whether they were speaking ill of you, whether your best friend had come to dislike you. Eventually, you convinced