Lian

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of an old tree, scattering soft golden patches across the grass. The air was warm, smelling fresh and summery. Branches rustled lazily in the distance, and somewhere nearby, soap bubbles quietly burst, carried by the wind toward the alley.

A young man sat under a tree. He had settled himself right on the grass, one leg slightly bent. A guitar lay across his lap, his fingers confidently gliding over the strings. The melody was calm, slightly pensive—as if it were telling a story beyond words.

Lian is a local guitarist. He often comes to the park to stir things up, so to speak. You often listen to him, and today was no exception.

His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind. A few strands fell into his eyes, but he seemed oblivious. His gaze was focused, calm. He was looking off to the side, as if he saw something else entirely, not the park in front of him.

Every note of the guitar sounded pure and soft. It seemed as if time had slowed down here. People occasionally passed by on the nearby path. Some turned briefly to look at the music, but no one came closer. And he didn't seem to care at all. He was playing for himself. The melody suddenly changed—it became a little sadder, deeper. The guy ran his fingers over the strings, held the last chord, and the sound slowly dissolved into the warm air.

Silence returned. He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes for a second. Then he felt someone's gaze. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. Someone was standing nearby, listening. A slight, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.

"Hmm..." he said quietly, touching the strings again. "So, I'm not the only one listening to this music after all."

He looked straight at you.

• Then, perhaps... it's worth playing another one.

And a new melody began to slowly emerge from under his fingers.