Two pairs of eyes.

They put me in a private room. It was obvious that this was different from Lin Hui's room—modern and comfortable, with a sofa, a bed, a private bathroom, and even a bathtub.

The one who brought me in wasn't the two policemen who had knocked on my hotel door earlier, but the bureau chief.

He was polite, yet his tone carried an unmistakable hint of something inappropriate—mockery?

Beyond mockery, there was a familiar calmness and the kind of decorum typical of officials.

Strangely, things didn't turn out as I had expected. These past three days were, in a way, the most relaxed days of my life. It was as if I had regained the sense of security I had as an infant: in a room that remained brightly lit 24/7, I had no sense of time; in a windowless space, I was cut off from the outside world; aside from the essentials for my basic physiological needs, I had no access to anything else. I didn't have to play the piano, meet people, speak, or even adhere to a prescribed schedule of being awake or asleep.

For most of the time, the room was eerily silent. Yet in my mind, melodies I had once performed played incessantly. Aside from Chopin's pieces, Schumann's appeared the most. Oddly enough, though I had rarely performed Mozart outside of K330, his Requiem surfaced in my thoughts. Like the apple that struck Newton, it felt precious.

Three days of isolation gave me the illusion that music belonged to another world, untouched by the trivialities of this one. But I had overlooked my physical self. I couldn't detach from this world—at least, not in my career. If I could no longer play on stage, would I still play the piano? I had never cared about the eyes in the audience, nor had I been affected by criticism. I was already an authority. Or rather, I only chose to hear the praise until I became accustomed to it—just as I had grown accustomed to him.

And him? He, too, would grow used to the attention, solidifying his love for music under the weight of public judgment. He loved music, and so he loved me. But was it truly the music he loved, or the authority I represented—a living embodiment of musical perfection? Did he love music, or did he love the boundless attention it brought him? Did he love me, or did he love the surrogate who fulfilled his unfinished dream?

Perhaps, to him, these were all the same thing—there could be no contradictions among them.

He was wrong. And so was I.

Over time, I came to realize that I could never embody some abstract artistic ideal. My love for music was impure. And impurity aside, I wanted it all, just as he did—fame, fortune, love. Just like Mozart, who composed Requiem not out of divine inspiration, but simply because he was paid to do so. Between one note and the next, there was no hierarchy of worth.

As my thoughts spun out of control, exhaustion took over. I suddenly opened my eyes, realizing it had all been a dream. I was drenched in sweat.

"Ye Xi, you can leave now."

The bureau chief's secretary stood by the railing of the room. "Technically, you were supposed to be here for ten days, but the investigation is over."

Then, he suddenly gestured for me to come closer.

The investigation was over. Lin Hui had confessed without hesitation—after all, she had been placed there deliberately. I admitted to soliciting prostitution, thinking it wouldn't have much of an impact.

I was completely unaware of the gravity of the situation.

"You still have the nerve to smile. Artists really do treat fame and fortune like dirt," the bureau chief's secretary remarked.

That smug smile of mine—this most primal form of wealth—was something I could never reveal to the world.

"It's all gone. Everything," I said.

"You're free to go. Bet you only appreciate freedom now that you've lost it. Don't make the same mistake again." He patted my shoulder, then leaned in closer to whisper, "If you want to fool around, do it abroad. But if you ask me, artists have great taste. That girl—stunning, top quality."

I had long known they had made their own backroom deals. Seeing his mocking expression, I had no interest in responding.

When I remained silent, he added, "Do you know who it was?"

I still said nothing.

"The music association issued a statement yesterday. You've been expelled." His tone hardened. "And your committee position? That's gone too."

I showed no reaction.

"You probably won't be able to perform publicly again." Seeing that I still didn't respond, he stepped back, crossed his arms, and scoffed, looking even more self-satisfied. "If you want to know who did it, come find me."

He tossed me a business card.

Who did he think he was? Just a secretary—one of those ruthless enforcers, doing the dirty work, spewing threats to force my submission. And not even a high-ranking one, just a lackey to a deputy minister, yet he had the audacity to bargain with me. Once I got out, finding out who had set me up would be effortless.

I didn't take his business card. Instead, I straightened my appearance in the mirror, preparing to face the swarm of reporters at the detention center's gate.

Yet when I stepped out, only a few people stood on the terrazzo pavement. In the sparse crowd, I quickly spotted Dai Yanzhi. He was looking at me with an expression I had never seen before.

"Check your phone," he said, keeping a small distance between us.

I unlocked it. Not many messages. A few voicemails—all from my mother. And one from Professor Dan.

No need to listen. I deleted them all. As if erasing this external version of myself in real time. The "good child" was already dead.

Flashes flickered here and there, but I turned my back to them. Dai Yanzhi stood beside me, shielding me. Thankfully, there weren't many reporters. We got into the car without trouble.

The lack of media presence was odd.

We drove back to Wanliu in silence. Inside, most of the furniture was covered in white sheets—it looked as if someone had fled in a hurry.

"Who did this?" My anger flared.

"Auntie had it covered. She thinks you should sell the place and lie low for a while," Dai Yanzhi said, lighting a cigarette.

"Is it really that serious?" I looked at him.

"It's already come to this, and you still don't get it?" His voice suddenly rose. "No wonder you got sold out without even realizing it. Have you learned anything? I told you before—don't just play the piano, use your damn brain. After what happened with Yan Feng, you couldn't even play anymore. What else do you have to fight back with?"

Unbelievable. Dai Yanzhi lecturing me.

But I couldn't argue with him.

"It's not the end of the world. I can't stay in Beijing, fine. Shanghai's still an option. If that doesn't work, I'll go back to Chengdu. I'm still a professor," I said.

"All your public positions have been suspended. The conservatory cut ties with you ages ago. Right now, no one with any influence even dares mention your name," he said, striking me down with the truth.

So, that's how it was.

Everything—gone, like the wind. The fallen leaves scattered, just like him. In the end, even my last bit of pride would be stripped away. The gold medal I once treasured now belonged to some rising star. Their glory and my disgrace circulated online on the same day.

I had once been like that newcomer—basking in fame, standing in the limelight. But the time I truly longed for wasn't the days of trophies and applause. It was when I could love the piano with nothing to gain, when I could love someone without hesitation.

Should I miss him? Whether I should or not, I already did.

In the depths of my mind, I saw him. That safest of all places—my subconscious, my underground sanctuary. No matter how much he had hurt me, it didn't change the fact that I loved him the most. And now, in this moment, I held the safest kind of love: a love that could never be realized. He would forever remain in my memories, my most cherished illusion, my purest past.

Back then, I had yet to taste the sweetness of success. I loved him, and I loved the version of myself who hadn't yet learned to measure gain and loss.

At this point, there was nothing left to regret. What I once had, I had truly possessed. What I had now lost, was simply gone. At the very least, I could still remember.

"Fine. Might as well take this chance to rest for a while." I lowered my head as I spoke.

"You're always so calm—so calm it's terrifying. You do whatever you want, making all the decisions yourself. Life has been too kind to you. It's like you believe that sheer willpower and effort can make anything happen. But can you be honest with me, just once? I know I'm not him." He exhaled. "But did you ever really tell him what you were thinking? Do you know why he left you back then? You were too full of yourself."

"Where were all of you when I was at the top? The people at my company feared me, sure. But what about you? Besides criticism, did any of you ever tell me what I should do? Now that things have fallen apart, you call me arrogant, reckless, self-indulgent. But none of you take any responsibility for watching me walk straight into this mess without saying a word. Everyone used to call me the first Chinese pianist to win the Chopin gold medal. Back then, they worshiped me. And now, after one mistake, in just a single day, I should be spat on by everyone?" I snapped at him.

"You're in your thirties, and you still need others to tell you how to live? You never cared what people said about you before—why do you care now?" He flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out on the wooden boards with his shoe.

"Don't throw cigarette butts in my house. Get out."

He didn't look back. Just slammed the door behind him.

I stared outside. The silk-like pink blooms of the Persian silk tree were falling, scattering like feathers in the rain, mixing with the mud and dirt. Low-hanging clouds drifted quickly across the sky, casting wave after wave of shadow. The rain beat down on the tree, stripping the flowers one by one. It reminded me of Hannover, back then. I had always been so comfortable with solitude, finding it as melancholic and beautiful as the sight before me.

The only problem was—winter was coming.

As the sky darkened, a cautious knock sounded at the door.

Dai Yanzhi?

I opened it.

It was him—the one from the deepest corners of my mind.

Had I really become this fragile? Even in a moment like this, I was still dreaming of the impossible. I didn't even remember what I had taken earlier. Ridiculous.

But then, he fell into me, wrapping his arms around me, holding me so tightly, so warmly.

My eyes filled with tears, but I refused to let them fall. Too humiliating.

And in the next second, he was on me—lips pressed against mine, without hesitation.

Any other time, I could have pushed him away. But not now.

Just for this moment—his kiss, his skin, the fine hairs at the base of his abdomen, his breath—I would allow myself to cry freely in the depths of my heart.

I had already fallen far enough for the whole world to see. Falling once more with him would only make it more exhilarating.

Dai Yanzhi was wrong. It wasn't that I got whatever I wanted. I had only ever been pulled along by the chaos of this world, played like a puppet in its hands.

I never expected to meet the piano.I never expected to meet Yan Feng.I never expected to win that award at eighteen.I never expected fame and fortune.

It was all just the roll of a celestial die, tossed at the feet of a reckless child, who picked it up without a second thought.

Nothing in this world had ever truly belonged to me. The only thing I could control was my own feelings, my own sensations.

Like the shape of his lips.

And so, I let myself drown in this moment.

Even after tonight, I still couldn't spend the rest of my life with him.

"Xixi, I missed you so much, I thought I was going to die." His face blocked the crystal chandelier on the bedroom ceiling, his silhouette glowing against the light like the crystals themselves. So beautiful.

"I hate you." I smiled, looking at him.

"Like this?" He tilted his head back, his body trembling.

"Yes. Or like this." I rose up, pressing him beneath me.

A single magnolia petal lay on his chest, pure white and silky, pooling dew in its curve—his sweat, my tears. He saw the wetness in my eyes and parted his lips to speak. I covered his mouth, unwilling to hear any of his excuses. Instead, I poured my hatred into him, faster, harder. As I touched his skin, I imagined the traces left there by others—traces no different from those left on me. I stared into his eyes, searching them for the ghosts of other faces, lingering in the places where my body now rested.

"You never cry," he murmured.

"That's right." I tilted my head, looking down at him.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Right now." Of course, he meant the bed.

I laughed. He never disappointed me—he hadn't changed at all. The moment I threatened his carefully crafted social mask, he would abandon me without hesitation.

And now, I no longer had anything left to be his source of pride.

"Alright." My body shuddered involuntarily. So this was all the world's glory amounted to—only this fleeting moment of light was eternal paradise.

After our brief elopement, we lay there as we had in the past, staring at the ceiling, saying nothing.

Between the silences, the pillow grew damp.

I had only two pairs of eyes. Most of the time, I used the dry ones to see the world. The other pair—a boundless ocean—was reserved for the me of that day, and for him.

Back then, he lay in my ocean, comforting my shattered pride with a heart that was always on the verge of leaving.