Chapter 60: Mu Xiangxiang's Approach
Just as they reached the ground floor, they ran into Qiao Nan, who had driven over in a hurry. The moment he spotted Mu Song—wearing a cap and mask, squatting gloomily outside the apartment complex with a guitar on his back—he walked up and kicked the kid squarely in the backside. The kick nearly sent the cool, stylish lead singer sprawling face-first onto the pavement.
Startled out of his daze, Mu Song exploded: "Are you sick or something?!"
Though he looked furious, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere hanging between him and his sister finally broke.
Qiao Nan glanced at the duffel bag beside him, then pulled the solemn-faced Mu Xiangxiang over and checked her over from head to toe. "You're not hurt, are you?"
Mu Xiangxiang shook her head. The moment she saw him, the thoughts that had been racing through her mind suddenly gave way to exhaustion.
Noticing her expression, Qiao Nan pinched her cheek. Finding something off, he released it and instead rubbed it gently. "What happened?"
Mu Xiangxiang sighed. "A disaster out of nowhere."
The whole thing began with Daya Media and the music festival that had ended not long ago.
Zhou Huacai of Daya Media had arranged for Liberty to perform at the festival and promised that if they made enough of an impact, they would earn an opportunity to participate in a major talent competition. It was an excellent opportunity for growth. Mu Song and his teammates had performed beyond expectations, won second prize, and even gained a modest amount of online fame.
The next step in their career path seemed obvious. Before their popularity faded, Zhou Huacai would ride that wave of internet attention and push them onto the highly anticipated stage of the upcoming talent show. The competition was already entering its fifteenth season and enjoyed enormous public attention. It was no obscure event. As long as they truly had the ability, standing on that stage would bring them one step closer to their dreams.
But perhaps this was simply what people meant by joy turning into sorrow. Maybe Liberty's performance at the music festival had exceeded even Daya Media's expectations. The company, which had previously paid little attention to the unknown newcomers Zhou Huacai had recruited, suddenly became enthusiastic about them. Soon after, a notice arrived: All five Liberty members, including Mu Song, had been selected to participate in the company's rookie training program.
As one of the industry's entertainment giants, Daya Media possessed extraordinary resources. Every year, it selected a small group of especially promising newcomers for intensive training. Within the industry, the value of this training was second to none. It focused on the comprehensive development of pre-debut artists. The spots were incredibly valuable. When Zhou Huacai had initially tried to apply for places for Liberty, he had been informed that all positions were already full. So receiving this news was both surprising and exciting.
Without giving it much thought, he immediately contacted the band members and told them to prepare. However, unlike a talent competition, this training program could occasionally conflict with school schedules. As a result, the company required permission from the legal guardians of any underage participants before finalizing enrollment.
What nobody knew was how carefully Mu Song had been hiding his dream at home. Not even Zhou Huacai understood. To conceal his ambitions, he'd spent years walking on eggshells. He'd been so cautious that even his music festival trophy had to be hidden inside his sister's room.
And now the truth had been exposed without warning. Father Mu had practically gone mad. Not only was it the first time Mu Xiangxiang—who had always been treated gently—had ever seen him lose control like this, but even Mu Song, despite years of constant arguments with his family, had never witnessed his father in such a state.
The house was a wreck. There was no going back tonight.
Qiao Nan hailed a taxi and sent Mu Song to the dormitory Daya had arranged for its artists.
Throughout the journey, Mu Xiangxiang remained deeply worried. Oddly enough, Mu Song seemed completely unaffected. Instead, he was the one comforting her. "Hey, stop looking like that. I'm fine. It's just an argument. You know Dad better than anyone. I never expected him to understand me in the first place. If he won't sign, then fine. I just won't attend the training classes. That'll actually make focusing on the talent competition easier. Who cares anyway?"
Even as he spoke, several other young people arrived at the dormitory building. They got out of cars and headed toward the entrance.
Some were male, some female. What they all had in common was the crowd of parents and relatives accompanying them. The adults fussed over them just as families did when sending freshmen into university dormitories. They repeatedly reminded their children not to neglect academics, to practice dancing and instruments diligently, to call home whenever they felt overwhelmed, and above all to take care of themselves.
Meanwhile, the young people looked completely exasperated. Each one was desperately trying to coax their families into leaving sooner.
Standing at the entrance of the training dormitory, Mu Song watched the scene for a long time. Then he silently looked away. With obvious disdain, he snorted. "Tch."
Stupid kid.
Qiao Nan reached out toward his forehead. Lost in thought, Mu Song even forgot to dodge for once. Qiao Nan ruffled the fluffy gray hair. For a brief moment, he seemed to be looking at his younger self from years ago. "What are you trying so hard to act tough for?"
*****
After leaving, Qiao Nan noticed that Mu Xiangxiang still seemed distracted. He frowned and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Enough. Don't think about it so much. Your brother isn't nearly as fragile as you think. He's talented. Even if the road is rough, he'll succeed eventually."
Qiao Nan had been rebellious once too. He had clashed with his family countless times. Standing in a similar position, he understood Mu Song's state of mind perfectly. Some things were desperately desired. Yet when they ultimately proved unattainable, time would gradually wear away the obsession.
What remained afterward were scars filled with regret. Usually they didn't kill you. People simply called it: Growing up.
Cruel.
But unavoidable.
Mu Xiangxiang withdrew her gaze from the sky. "Qiao Nan, do you know Gao Yan's older brother? He's always loved drawing. The huge building in People's Square was designed by him."
Of course Qiao Nan knew him. The man was practically a legend among their wealthy social circle. "Yeah? Why bring him up?"
"He's working at one of the best design institutes now." She paused. "By ordinary standards, you'd say he's successful, right?" Then her voice lowered. "But he immigrated overseas. He barely contacts his family even a few times a year. I don't want Mu Song to become like that."
Qiao Nan turned toward her. She looked back. Her eyes were clear and earnest, filled with a quiet determination. "I don't want my brother to spend the rest of his life regretting something this important. I don't want him carrying that resentment forever."
"I don't want his growth to be forced through something this cruel."
"Qiao Nan. I want to help him. I want to convince my parents. At the very least, they deserve to understand what he's actually doing."
"He isn't wasting his life."
"He has a dream."
"Anyone can misunderstand him. But we can't."
She stood before the dormitory building. Sunlight illuminated her fair face, the tiny hairs along her skin glowing in a soft halo. For a moment, Qiao Nan could hardly look away.
His heart pounded. A gentle strength seemed to radiate silently from her.
It was a warmth that made people greedy. A warmth that made him want to keep it entirely for himself.
Just like the place that had gradually become—despite the smoke from cooking, the endless bustle, the ugly carpets and decorations— the place he now longed to return to every day.
A home.
*****
The Mu household remained in chaos. By the time Mu Xiangxiang returned, her mother had stopped crying. Her eyes were still swollen and red. She was sweeping shattered porcelain fragments from the floor.
As the broom scraped across the tiles, Mother Mu glanced up and forced a bitter smile. "Your father and brother really are something. If they're going to argue, then argue. Why wreck the house? We've only had a few good days. And now they're throwing things around like money grows on trees."
Mu Xiangxiang rolled up her sleeves. "I'll help."
"Go away, go away." Her mother immediately blocked her. "You'll cut your hands. There's no need. Go check on your father."
Remembering how exhausted her father had looked before she left, Mu Xiangxiang asked: "How is Dad?"
Mother Mu sighed. Before she could answer, a violent coughing fit erupted from the west-facing bedroom.
The room was much smaller than the children's bedroom. Father Mu lay on the bed with his eyes half-closed. His lips were pale. His hands rested atop the blanket, thin and bony. His knuckles bulged with deformities. Every inch of him bore the marks of a lifetime of hard work.
Carrying a cup of warm water, Mu Xiangxiang sat beside him. "Dad, are you okay?"
It had been a long time since she'd seen him this weak. The last time had been back in their old house. Ever since moving, he'd seemed energetic and full of life. Clearly, Mu Song's actions had truly enraged him this time.
Seeing his daughter, Father Mu managed a gentle smile. "I'm fine. It's just the old problem. I'll be okay after resting for a bit."
Then, remembering what had happened earlier, he hesitated. "...You gave the guitar back to your brother?"
Mu Xiangxiang: "Mm."
Mu Xiangxiang remembered the look on his face when he'd held the guitar aloft, staring at it as though it were some cursed object ruining his son's life. She had expected at least a few harsh words. But none came. Father Mu merely sighed. Taking the cup from her hand, he asked: "And him? Where did he go? Does he have somewhere to stay?"
Mu Xiangxiang placed two pillows behind her father’s back as he struggled to sit up. “He does. He’s staying at the training dormitory.”
Before she could finish, she met her father’s furrowed brows. After a moment’s thought, she added, “Don’t worry. The dormitory is properly managed, and that entertainment company is fairly established. It’s safe there.”
The deep crease between his brows slowly eased. After a long while, Father Mu let out a tired sigh. “…As long as he’s safe. As long as he’s safe.”
After a pause, moisture welled in his eyes as he looked wistfully at his daughter. “Why can’t Songsong learn from you? I’m not asking him to work as hard as you do. I’m not expecting him to win scholarships or come first in his class like you. All I want is for him to get into an ordinary high school, then an ordinary university, and find a stable job after graduation. I just want him to be able to live a decent life without having to work himself to death every day like your mother, and I do. But look at him now. He’s putting all his energy into singing and dancing, messing around with all that crooked nonsense…”
When he said “crooked nonsense,” there was undisguised disgust in his eyes. Mu Xiangxiang hesitated. Remembering what she had thought about before returning home, she tentatively said, “Dad, actually, I don’t think you need to worry about him so much. Mu Song is working really hard now. I can tell that he genuinely loves singing…”
“I never said he couldn’t sing!” Father Mu exclaimed. “As long as he goes to school properly every day and improves his grades, I’ll never interfere with how much he sings in his free time. But look at him now! Is this acceptable? Do you know how badly he did at the end of last semester? Add up all his subjects, and he barely has as many points as you get in one subject! His grades are already this bad, and he still wants to go to some damn training program. He really has no idea how to think about his own future…”
He launched into another tirade about his son wasting his time on useless pursuits. As his emotions grew more agitated, he bent over the edge of the bed, coughing until his entire face turned red. Mu Xiangxiang remained silent for a while before giving up on trying to persuade him this way. She had grown up under her parents’ belief that “everything is inferior; only studying is noble.” Until just a few months ago, she herself had firmly believed in it. No one knew better than she did how deeply her parents were obsessed with academics. How could a worldview that had been ingrained for decades possibly be overturned by a few simple words from her?
If they kept confronting one another head-on, the only result would be another argument.
Mu Xiangxiang disliked arguing. She preferred solving problems peacefully.
She returned to her brother’s room and picked up the posters that had been torn from the walls and scattered across the floor and inside the trash bin. She spread them out, smoothed them flat, and carefully put them away. Then she searched through Mu Song’s desk. Mu Song liked keeping things organized, so she quickly found the folder where he stored his exam papers. She opened it and scanned the contents. Aside from Chinese, which he did fairly well in, every other subject was covered in alarming red crosses. Mathematics and English in particular were practically a disaster scene.
With the judgment of a top student, Mu Xiangxiang could easily tell the difference between Mu Song’s failing grades and Qiao Nan’s. Qiao Nan’s family also had piles of zero-score exam papers, but many of those were simply because he had deliberately handed in blank papers. Mu Song was different. He had seriously attempted many of the questions. He had simply gotten them wrong.
When it came to subjects he actually liked, such as Chinese composition, his performance was remarkably good. His handwriting was beautiful, and his essays flowed freely with an unmistakable spark of talent. There was even something of the same lyrical quality he had when writing songs.
After Mother Mu finished cleaning the living room, she came to tidy her son’s room. Seeing her daughter standing at the desk flipping rapidly through the folders, she froze for a moment. “Xiang, what are you doing?”
Mu Xiangxiang glanced back at her calmly. She neatly gathered the few folders she had selected and, at the same time, slipped her brother’s beloved posters into a drawer. “Nothing.”
She left the house carrying the materials. It was already getting dark when she finally returned, looking exhausted and carrying a thick stack of documents more than three centimeters wide.
*****
It was late at night. The argument with their son earlier that day had left the couple utterly drained. After Father Mu took his medicine, washed up, and changed into his pajamas, he sat staring blankly at the family photograph on the table. The photo had been taken during the previous Chinese New Year at their old house. The background was shabby and dim. Their black-haired daughter stood on one side of them, while their gray-haired son stood on the other.
Father Mu stared at the teenager’s cold expression and suddenly realized that he seemed to have not seen his son smile in a very long time. He couldn’t remember when the boy had become so much like a hedgehog. Always suppressing something. Always leaving Father Mu with nowhere to direct his helplessness. In the photograph, father and son stood so close together, yet the distance between them seemed like an uncrossable chasm.
All that remained in his memories seemed to be arguments. He thought of the expression on his son’s face earlier that day when he had shouted, “Am I really that useless in your eyes?” His heart ached. He couldn’t help sighing.
As a father, how could he possibly want his own son to be useless? But the boy had to show them something—something they could trust him with.
Under the dim bedroom light, Mother Mu was making the bed when she suddenly noticed something unexpected on the bedside table. “What’s this?”
Father Mu tore his gaze away from his son’s cold face in the photograph and turned to look. Under the light, he saw a thick stack of documents sitting beside the bed. He froze. He didn’t remember putting anything there. His wife had already stretched out her arm and pulled the stack closer, reading the enormous heading on the first page aloud. “Daya Media Co., Ltd. Business Qualification—what is this?”
Daya Media?!
Only after saying the name did she suddenly remember something. She turned and met her husband’s equally stunned expression. After three seconds of silence, Father Mu finally understood. He immediately limped over to his wife.
Mother Mu quickly shifted over to make room for him, and the two of them began flipping through the documents together. Almost everything in the stack was related to Daya Media. After the initial business qualification assessment were documents detailing the company’s shareholding structure, business scope, roster of contracted artists, and various copied photographs of major events hosted by Daya Media. Even the blurry pixels could not hide the dazzling extravagance of those photographs. Further down were press releases containing the company’s publicly reported annual revenue and profits, along with the representative works of its contracted artists. As an ordinary viewer, Mother Mu found this section the easiest to understand. She immediately recognized a long string of familiar names.
“Oh! Isn’t this that song?”
“I watched this TV drama back then!”
Next to each work was the artist’s reported remuneration. The endless strings of zeros completely stunned Mother Mu, who was still struggling along with their small business. She held up a sheet and repeatedly checked it with her husband. “Old Mu, look at this. Look carefully. Is this twenty million?”
Father Mu: “…”
Mother Mu: “Can’t be real, right? That foreigner said he wanted to invest ten million and set up a factory with us. So after all that, we can work ourselves to death running a factory and still not make as much as they earn from acting in one TV drama?”
Father Mu: “…”
Mother Mu: “How do celebrities make so much money?”
Father Mu was somewhat overwhelmed too. He was looking at another stack of papers. This one contained a list of every artist who had gone through Daya’s rookie training program, from the very first cohort to the most recent one. It was an extremely thick stack. Beside every name was a table detailing their subsequent careers—those who had become actors, those who had become singers, those who had moved behind the scenes into various planning and production roles, along with their approximate net worth and salaries. There were hardly any whose whereabouts were unknown. Excluding the newcomers from the two most recent cohorts, who had only just completed their training, even the least successful of the older trainees had stayed on at Da Ya after training as a vocal instructor, earning a monthly salary of 9,000 yuan.
A monthly salary of 9,000 yuan in City A was unquestionably the income of a high-level white-collar worker.
After reaching the final page of the list, the documents finally had nothing more to do with Daya. What followed was a bound stack of exam results belonging to a student named Mu Song. Every exam from third grade in elementary school through the end of eighth grade was included. The numbers lined up together were painfully clear. Other than Chinese, he had not passed a single subject even once.
2There was also a chart showing the admission cutoffs for high schools throughout the city from the previous year’s entrance examination. Schools whose cutoff scores were far beyond Mu Song’s results were printed in regular type. Only a few were bolded. Father Mu’s temple immediately began to throb when he saw their names.
The person who had compiled the list had been meticulous to an almost frightening degree. Even the acceptance rates for key universities and ordinary universities among graduates of those bolded high schools had been compiled. One was worse than the next. For several technical schools, there were even notes specifically pointing out the employment difficulties most graduates would face after graduation.
The conclusion was painfully straightforward. It was almost exactly the future waiting for Mu Song if he continued down his current path with his current grades. Father Mu’s hands began to tremble. At that moment, a DVD slipped gracefully from between the papers he was holding.
A sticky note was attached to the disc, covered in neat, elegant handwriting:
“Dad, Mom, I think you should see what Mu Song looks like when he sings.”
Father Mu and Mother Mu exchanged glances. They stared at the disc as though it were a ferocious beast about to pounce on them and devour them whole.
And yet, at the same time, the couple realized something for the very first time. They had never actually seen their son sing. Their understanding of their child’s hobby had always remained confined to words and arguments. Whenever music came up, there were always heated disputes. They had resisted Mu Song’s refusal to pursue a conventional path so strongly that they didn’t even want to hear anything related to his music. How could they possibly have taken the time to watch him sing?
After a long silence, Father Mu stood up first. Hunched over, he set aside the stack of documents that had completely overturned his understanding of the situation. Clutching the disc, he silently opened the bedroom door.
The living room was empty. The lights were off. He glanced toward the daughter’s bedroom, whose door was firmly closed. In the end, he did not go to find her.
He put the disc into the DVD player and turned on the television. Mother Mu sat in the room and silently turned her head.
Father Mu braced himself against the back of the sofa, staring at the loading screen on the television. The wait was both very short and unbearably long. Then—
With an accompaniment that burst forth far too loudly for the middle of the night, a gray-haired young man in a black tank top suddenly jumped into view, a guitar held in his arms.
Father Mu’s breathing stopped for two seconds. He stared at the young man on the screen, watching him bounce along with the rhythm as he played the guitar. On his face was a confident smile, one that seemed to appear only because he had finally cast off every ounce of restraint. Father Mu’s fingers sank deeply into the soft fabric of the sofa.
That night, Mu Xiangxiang tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Because through the wall, from the living room outside, came the sound of Mu Song’s singing. Even with the volume turned down, the vibrant, exhilarating voice still managed to keep her wide awake. It seeped through the crack beneath her door again and again, throughout the entire night.
------------------
Just as they reached the ground floor, they ran into Qiao Nan, who had driven over in a hurry. The moment he spotted Mu Song—wearing a cap and mask, squatting gloomily outside the apartment complex with a guitar on his back—he walked up and kicked the kid squarely in the backside. The kick nearly sent the cool, stylish lead singer sprawling face-first onto the pavement.
Startled out of his daze, Mu Song exploded: "Are you sick or something?!"
Though he looked furious, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere hanging between him and his sister finally broke.
Qiao Nan glanced at the duffel bag beside him, then pulled the solemn-faced Mu Xiangxiang over and checked her over from head to toe. "You're not hurt, are you?"
Mu Xiangxiang shook her head. The moment she saw him, the thoughts that had been racing through her mind suddenly gave way to exhaustion.
Noticing her expression, Qiao Nan pinched her cheek. Finding something off, he released it and instead rubbed it gently. "What happened?"
Mu Xiangxiang sighed. "A disaster out of nowhere."
The whole thing began with Daya Media and the music festival that had ended not long ago.
Zhou Huacai of Daya Media had arranged for Liberty to perform at the festival and promised that if they made enough of an impact, they would earn an opportunity to participate in a major talent competition. It was an excellent opportunity for growth. Mu Song and his teammates had performed beyond expectations, won second prize, and even gained a modest amount of online fame.
The next step in their career path seemed obvious. Before their popularity faded, Zhou Huacai would ride that wave of internet attention and push them onto the highly anticipated stage of the upcoming talent show. The competition was already entering its fifteenth season and enjoyed enormous public attention. It was no obscure event. As long as they truly had the ability, standing on that stage would bring them one step closer to their dreams.
But perhaps this was simply what people meant by joy turning into sorrow. Maybe Liberty's performance at the music festival had exceeded even Daya Media's expectations. The company, which had previously paid little attention to the unknown newcomers Zhou Huacai had recruited, suddenly became enthusiastic about them. Soon after, a notice arrived: All five Liberty members, including Mu Song, had been selected to participate in the company's rookie training program.
As one of the industry's entertainment giants, Daya Media possessed extraordinary resources. Every year, it selected a small group of especially promising newcomers for intensive training. Within the industry, the value of this training was second to none. It focused on the comprehensive development of pre-debut artists. The spots were incredibly valuable. When Zhou Huacai had initially tried to apply for places for Liberty, he had been informed that all positions were already full. So receiving this news was both surprising and exciting.
Without giving it much thought, he immediately contacted the band members and told them to prepare. However, unlike a talent competition, this training program could occasionally conflict with school schedules. As a result, the company required permission from the legal guardians of any underage participants before finalizing enrollment.
What nobody knew was how carefully Mu Song had been hiding his dream at home. Not even Zhou Huacai understood. To conceal his ambitions, he'd spent years walking on eggshells. He'd been so cautious that even his music festival trophy had to be hidden inside his sister's room.
And now the truth had been exposed without warning. Father Mu had practically gone mad. Not only was it the first time Mu Xiangxiang—who had always been treated gently—had ever seen him lose control like this, but even Mu Song, despite years of constant arguments with his family, had never witnessed his father in such a state.
The house was a wreck. There was no going back tonight.
Qiao Nan hailed a taxi and sent Mu Song to the dormitory Daya had arranged for its artists.
Throughout the journey, Mu Xiangxiang remained deeply worried. Oddly enough, Mu Song seemed completely unaffected. Instead, he was the one comforting her. "Hey, stop looking like that. I'm fine. It's just an argument. You know Dad better than anyone. I never expected him to understand me in the first place. If he won't sign, then fine. I just won't attend the training classes. That'll actually make focusing on the talent competition easier. Who cares anyway?"
Even as he spoke, several other young people arrived at the dormitory building. They got out of cars and headed toward the entrance.
Some were male, some female. What they all had in common was the crowd of parents and relatives accompanying them. The adults fussed over them just as families did when sending freshmen into university dormitories. They repeatedly reminded their children not to neglect academics, to practice dancing and instruments diligently, to call home whenever they felt overwhelmed, and above all to take care of themselves.
Meanwhile, the young people looked completely exasperated. Each one was desperately trying to coax their families into leaving sooner.
Standing at the entrance of the training dormitory, Mu Song watched the scene for a long time. Then he silently looked away. With obvious disdain, he snorted. "Tch."
Stupid kid.
Qiao Nan reached out toward his forehead. Lost in thought, Mu Song even forgot to dodge for once. Qiao Nan ruffled the fluffy gray hair. For a brief moment, he seemed to be looking at his younger self from years ago. "What are you trying so hard to act tough for?"
*****
After leaving, Qiao Nan noticed that Mu Xiangxiang still seemed distracted. He frowned and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Enough. Don't think about it so much. Your brother isn't nearly as fragile as you think. He's talented. Even if the road is rough, he'll succeed eventually."
Qiao Nan had been rebellious once too. He had clashed with his family countless times. Standing in a similar position, he understood Mu Song's state of mind perfectly. Some things were desperately desired. Yet when they ultimately proved unattainable, time would gradually wear away the obsession.
What remained afterward were scars filled with regret. Usually they didn't kill you. People simply called it: Growing up.
Cruel.
But unavoidable.
Mu Xiangxiang withdrew her gaze from the sky. "Qiao Nan, do you know Gao Yan's older brother? He's always loved drawing. The huge building in People's Square was designed by him."
Of course Qiao Nan knew him. The man was practically a legend among their wealthy social circle. "Yeah? Why bring him up?"
"He's working at one of the best design institutes now." She paused. "By ordinary standards, you'd say he's successful, right?" Then her voice lowered. "But he immigrated overseas. He barely contacts his family even a few times a year. I don't want Mu Song to become like that."
Qiao Nan turned toward her. She looked back. Her eyes were clear and earnest, filled with a quiet determination. "I don't want my brother to spend the rest of his life regretting something this important. I don't want him carrying that resentment forever."
"I don't want his growth to be forced through something this cruel."
"Qiao Nan. I want to help him. I want to convince my parents. At the very least, they deserve to understand what he's actually doing."
"He isn't wasting his life."
"He has a dream."
"Anyone can misunderstand him. But we can't."
She stood before the dormitory building. Sunlight illuminated her fair face, the tiny hairs along her skin glowing in a soft halo. For a moment, Qiao Nan could hardly look away.
His heart pounded. A gentle strength seemed to radiate silently from her.
It was a warmth that made people greedy. A warmth that made him want to keep it entirely for himself.
Just like the place that had gradually become—despite the smoke from cooking, the endless bustle, the ugly carpets and decorations— the place he now longed to return to every day.
A home.
*****
The Mu household remained in chaos. By the time Mu Xiangxiang returned, her mother had stopped crying. Her eyes were still swollen and red. She was sweeping shattered porcelain fragments from the floor.
As the broom scraped across the tiles, Mother Mu glanced up and forced a bitter smile. "Your father and brother really are something. If they're going to argue, then argue. Why wreck the house? We've only had a few good days. And now they're throwing things around like money grows on trees."
Mu Xiangxiang rolled up her sleeves. "I'll help."
"Go away, go away." Her mother immediately blocked her. "You'll cut your hands. There's no need. Go check on your father."
Remembering how exhausted her father had looked before she left, Mu Xiangxiang asked: "How is Dad?"
Mother Mu sighed. Before she could answer, a violent coughing fit erupted from the west-facing bedroom.
The room was much smaller than the children's bedroom. Father Mu lay on the bed with his eyes half-closed. His lips were pale. His hands rested atop the blanket, thin and bony. His knuckles bulged with deformities. Every inch of him bore the marks of a lifetime of hard work.
Carrying a cup of warm water, Mu Xiangxiang sat beside him. "Dad, are you okay?"
It had been a long time since she'd seen him this weak. The last time had been back in their old house. Ever since moving, he'd seemed energetic and full of life. Clearly, Mu Song's actions had truly enraged him this time.
Seeing his daughter, Father Mu managed a gentle smile. "I'm fine. It's just the old problem. I'll be okay after resting for a bit."
Then, remembering what had happened earlier, he hesitated. "...You gave the guitar back to your brother?"
Mu Xiangxiang: "Mm."
Mu Xiangxiang remembered the look on his face when he'd held the guitar aloft, staring at it as though it were some cursed object ruining his son's life. She had expected at least a few harsh words. But none came. Father Mu merely sighed. Taking the cup from her hand, he asked: "And him? Where did he go? Does he have somewhere to stay?"
Mu Xiangxiang placed two pillows behind her father’s back as he struggled to sit up. “He does. He’s staying at the training dormitory.”
Before she could finish, she met her father’s furrowed brows. After a moment’s thought, she added, “Don’t worry. The dormitory is properly managed, and that entertainment company is fairly established. It’s safe there.”
The deep crease between his brows slowly eased. After a long while, Father Mu let out a tired sigh. “…As long as he’s safe. As long as he’s safe.”
After a pause, moisture welled in his eyes as he looked wistfully at his daughter. “Why can’t Songsong learn from you? I’m not asking him to work as hard as you do. I’m not expecting him to win scholarships or come first in his class like you. All I want is for him to get into an ordinary high school, then an ordinary university, and find a stable job after graduation. I just want him to be able to live a decent life without having to work himself to death every day like your mother, and I do. But look at him now. He’s putting all his energy into singing and dancing, messing around with all that crooked nonsense…”
When he said “crooked nonsense,” there was undisguised disgust in his eyes. Mu Xiangxiang hesitated. Remembering what she had thought about before returning home, she tentatively said, “Dad, actually, I don’t think you need to worry about him so much. Mu Song is working really hard now. I can tell that he genuinely loves singing…”
“I never said he couldn’t sing!” Father Mu exclaimed. “As long as he goes to school properly every day and improves his grades, I’ll never interfere with how much he sings in his free time. But look at him now! Is this acceptable? Do you know how badly he did at the end of last semester? Add up all his subjects, and he barely has as many points as you get in one subject! His grades are already this bad, and he still wants to go to some damn training program. He really has no idea how to think about his own future…”
He launched into another tirade about his son wasting his time on useless pursuits. As his emotions grew more agitated, he bent over the edge of the bed, coughing until his entire face turned red. Mu Xiangxiang remained silent for a while before giving up on trying to persuade him this way. She had grown up under her parents’ belief that “everything is inferior; only studying is noble.” Until just a few months ago, she herself had firmly believed in it. No one knew better than she did how deeply her parents were obsessed with academics. How could a worldview that had been ingrained for decades possibly be overturned by a few simple words from her?
If they kept confronting one another head-on, the only result would be another argument.
Mu Xiangxiang disliked arguing. She preferred solving problems peacefully.
She returned to her brother’s room and picked up the posters that had been torn from the walls and scattered across the floor and inside the trash bin. She spread them out, smoothed them flat, and carefully put them away. Then she searched through Mu Song’s desk. Mu Song liked keeping things organized, so she quickly found the folder where he stored his exam papers. She opened it and scanned the contents. Aside from Chinese, which he did fairly well in, every other subject was covered in alarming red crosses. Mathematics and English in particular were practically a disaster scene.
With the judgment of a top student, Mu Xiangxiang could easily tell the difference between Mu Song’s failing grades and Qiao Nan’s. Qiao Nan’s family also had piles of zero-score exam papers, but many of those were simply because he had deliberately handed in blank papers. Mu Song was different. He had seriously attempted many of the questions. He had simply gotten them wrong.
When it came to subjects he actually liked, such as Chinese composition, his performance was remarkably good. His handwriting was beautiful, and his essays flowed freely with an unmistakable spark of talent. There was even something of the same lyrical quality he had when writing songs.
After Mother Mu finished cleaning the living room, she came to tidy her son’s room. Seeing her daughter standing at the desk flipping rapidly through the folders, she froze for a moment. “Xiang, what are you doing?”
Mu Xiangxiang glanced back at her calmly. She neatly gathered the few folders she had selected and, at the same time, slipped her brother’s beloved posters into a drawer. “Nothing.”
She left the house carrying the materials. It was already getting dark when she finally returned, looking exhausted and carrying a thick stack of documents more than three centimeters wide.
*****
It was late at night. The argument with their son earlier that day had left the couple utterly drained. After Father Mu took his medicine, washed up, and changed into his pajamas, he sat staring blankly at the family photograph on the table. The photo had been taken during the previous Chinese New Year at their old house. The background was shabby and dim. Their black-haired daughter stood on one side of them, while their gray-haired son stood on the other.
Father Mu stared at the teenager’s cold expression and suddenly realized that he seemed to have not seen his son smile in a very long time. He couldn’t remember when the boy had become so much like a hedgehog. Always suppressing something. Always leaving Father Mu with nowhere to direct his helplessness. In the photograph, father and son stood so close together, yet the distance between them seemed like an uncrossable chasm.
All that remained in his memories seemed to be arguments. He thought of the expression on his son’s face earlier that day when he had shouted, “Am I really that useless in your eyes?” His heart ached. He couldn’t help sighing.
As a father, how could he possibly want his own son to be useless? But the boy had to show them something—something they could trust him with.
Under the dim bedroom light, Mother Mu was making the bed when she suddenly noticed something unexpected on the bedside table. “What’s this?”
Father Mu tore his gaze away from his son’s cold face in the photograph and turned to look. Under the light, he saw a thick stack of documents sitting beside the bed. He froze. He didn’t remember putting anything there. His wife had already stretched out her arm and pulled the stack closer, reading the enormous heading on the first page aloud. “Daya Media Co., Ltd. Business Qualification—what is this?”
Daya Media?!
Only after saying the name did she suddenly remember something. She turned and met her husband’s equally stunned expression. After three seconds of silence, Father Mu finally understood. He immediately limped over to his wife.
Mother Mu quickly shifted over to make room for him, and the two of them began flipping through the documents together. Almost everything in the stack was related to Daya Media. After the initial business qualification assessment were documents detailing the company’s shareholding structure, business scope, roster of contracted artists, and various copied photographs of major events hosted by Daya Media. Even the blurry pixels could not hide the dazzling extravagance of those photographs. Further down were press releases containing the company’s publicly reported annual revenue and profits, along with the representative works of its contracted artists. As an ordinary viewer, Mother Mu found this section the easiest to understand. She immediately recognized a long string of familiar names.
“Oh! Isn’t this that song?”
“I watched this TV drama back then!”
Next to each work was the artist’s reported remuneration. The endless strings of zeros completely stunned Mother Mu, who was still struggling along with their small business. She held up a sheet and repeatedly checked it with her husband. “Old Mu, look at this. Look carefully. Is this twenty million?”
Father Mu: “…”
Mother Mu: “Can’t be real, right? That foreigner said he wanted to invest ten million and set up a factory with us. So after all that, we can work ourselves to death running a factory and still not make as much as they earn from acting in one TV drama?”
Father Mu: “…”
Mother Mu: “How do celebrities make so much money?”
Father Mu was somewhat overwhelmed too. He was looking at another stack of papers. This one contained a list of every artist who had gone through Daya’s rookie training program, from the very first cohort to the most recent one. It was an extremely thick stack. Beside every name was a table detailing their subsequent careers—those who had become actors, those who had become singers, those who had moved behind the scenes into various planning and production roles, along with their approximate net worth and salaries. There were hardly any whose whereabouts were unknown. Excluding the newcomers from the two most recent cohorts, who had only just completed their training, even the least successful of the older trainees had stayed on at Da Ya after training as a vocal instructor, earning a monthly salary of 9,000 yuan.
A monthly salary of 9,000 yuan in City A was unquestionably the income of a high-level white-collar worker.
After reaching the final page of the list, the documents finally had nothing more to do with Daya. What followed was a bound stack of exam results belonging to a student named Mu Song. Every exam from third grade in elementary school through the end of eighth grade was included. The numbers lined up together were painfully clear. Other than Chinese, he had not passed a single subject even once.
2There was also a chart showing the admission cutoffs for high schools throughout the city from the previous year’s entrance examination. Schools whose cutoff scores were far beyond Mu Song’s results were printed in regular type. Only a few were bolded. Father Mu’s temple immediately began to throb when he saw their names.
The person who had compiled the list had been meticulous to an almost frightening degree. Even the acceptance rates for key universities and ordinary universities among graduates of those bolded high schools had been compiled. One was worse than the next. For several technical schools, there were even notes specifically pointing out the employment difficulties most graduates would face after graduation.
The conclusion was painfully straightforward. It was almost exactly the future waiting for Mu Song if he continued down his current path with his current grades. Father Mu’s hands began to tremble. At that moment, a DVD slipped gracefully from between the papers he was holding.
A sticky note was attached to the disc, covered in neat, elegant handwriting:
“Dad, Mom, I think you should see what Mu Song looks like when he sings.”
Father Mu and Mother Mu exchanged glances. They stared at the disc as though it were a ferocious beast about to pounce on them and devour them whole.
And yet, at the same time, the couple realized something for the very first time. They had never actually seen their son sing. Their understanding of their child’s hobby had always remained confined to words and arguments. Whenever music came up, there were always heated disputes. They had resisted Mu Song’s refusal to pursue a conventional path so strongly that they didn’t even want to hear anything related to his music. How could they possibly have taken the time to watch him sing?
After a long silence, Father Mu stood up first. Hunched over, he set aside the stack of documents that had completely overturned his understanding of the situation. Clutching the disc, he silently opened the bedroom door.
The living room was empty. The lights were off. He glanced toward the daughter’s bedroom, whose door was firmly closed. In the end, he did not go to find her.
He put the disc into the DVD player and turned on the television. Mother Mu sat in the room and silently turned her head.
Father Mu braced himself against the back of the sofa, staring at the loading screen on the television. The wait was both very short and unbearably long. Then—
With an accompaniment that burst forth far too loudly for the middle of the night, a gray-haired young man in a black tank top suddenly jumped into view, a guitar held in his arms.
Father Mu’s breathing stopped for two seconds. He stared at the young man on the screen, watching him bounce along with the rhythm as he played the guitar. On his face was a confident smile, one that seemed to appear only because he had finally cast off every ounce of restraint. Father Mu’s fingers sank deeply into the soft fabric of the sofa.
That night, Mu Xiangxiang tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Because through the wall, from the living room outside, came the sound of Mu Song’s singing. Even with the volume turned down, the vibrant, exhilarating voice still managed to keep her wide awake. It seeped through the crack beneath her door again and again, throughout the entire night.
------------------
Author’s Note:
Older Sis Xiang has her own way of doing things.
Mu Song: “My sister is the best sister in the whole world!!!!”
Older Sis Xiang has her own way of doing things.
Mu Song: “My sister is the best sister in the whole world!!!!”
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