"Okay." Fan Ning lowered his head and moved his fingers aimlessly on the table.

Although he had never witnessed it with his own eyes, the image of Capron listening to the phonograph on the hospital bed still appeared in his mind.

"Sheeran, do you sometimes feel that there are so many wonderful musical works in this world that you can never listen to them all in a lifetime?"

"Of course." Sheeran didn't know why he suddenly felt so emotional, but nodded in agreement, "Actually, I'm embarrassed to say frankly that although everyone calls me a genius violinist, and some even call me 'famous', the vast music literature,

I am familiar with only a few parts, and I am not familiar with others. There are many, many pieces of music, and I don’t know how they sound. If you show me a piece of music score, I can’t match it with the title of the work, the name of the movement, or the name of the prologue.

, you may not even be able to guess which composer’s work it is…”

"But I feel very lucky to have been born in this industrial age. If I had been born even half a century earlier, the only two ways I would have heard a non-solo piece would have been to attend a concert or support a family band. But now, although

Phonographs and records are also very expensive, but at least music has become something within reach - you can listen to a symphony at any time while lying on the sofa or big bed at home, let alone the old people of the previous era.

, even when I think about it sometimes, I feel fantastic.”

Fan Ning pondered for a moment: "Have you ever thought that one day, more people will be able to listen to music in a cheaper and more convenient way, such as picking up a small machine or wearing a small device, which can make people accumulate music?"

A profound master, or a group of musicians who work well together to present their genius and ingenuity to you?"

"In that case..." Sheeran thought briefly, "Such happiness is unreal. Maybe it can happen in heaven, and it is more practical. Then I may really be able to listen to most of the music literature in my lifetime, although there are endless masters.

, the number is huge, but I make a plan, take that magical little device, listen to a little every day, listen to a little every day, and one day I will be able to read a lot..."

"Really, I don't think so." Fan Ning looked out the window in trance.

"Music is pure, people are not pure, procrastination is one aspect, and the lowering of technical threshold will cause the recording stock to develop explosively. Interest will be attracted by other styles that are more exciting and intense, and the entertainment threshold will be raised higher and higher.

...Do you think the actual situation is like this: when we were young, we held that magical little device and felt that the time ahead was too long. We thought that when we had free time, we would appreciate the works we planned to learn about, but suddenly one day we discovered that time

It’s almost gone, but the plans are still there, piling up more and more…”

"And you said, if you really come to the end of your life, would you choose a dozen or so of your favorite works and say goodbye to them one by one, or would you listen to one or two of your favorite works over and over again?"

Xilan thought seriously, but his expression of struggle became more and more obvious.

"I...I don't know how to choose...Why do you ask such a depressing question? I want to have a happy chat with you."

Really? Sheeran, do you think so?

However, Fan Ning felt that it was difficult to decide whether this caused depression or comfort.

But he finally shook his head: "If you say you don't want to talk, you won't."

At this time, a rare smile appeared on Fan Ning's face.

"Have you ever thought about what you want for your next 18th birthday? Refer to the general type or hint."

"Ah..." This topic made Xilan suddenly feel at a loss and surprised, "If there is any, you can make preparations."

She was actually a little confused. Her birthday was still more than two months away, so why did Fan Ning suddenly mention it today.

But for a long time, she hadn't seen Fan Ning smile, not including a bitter or helpless smile, or a single finger without a sense of gloom.

Especially now I am still smiling to myself.

It's really beautiful.

"A general type or prompt can make the effect better at that time," Fanning said.

"Usually when you ask this, you have an idea in mind." Sheeran looked up and rolled his eyes, "But, actually, I just prefer to collaborate with you on violin concertos. If you don't mind, you can do more."

"It's not too difficult. I can write a few more slowly."

"It doesn't have to be a new work, it's all the same. Those four small symphonies are so beautiful, are you going to perform them once and then put them down?"

"Old works are okay? You have such a small appetite."

"Do you have big ideas in mind?"

"It's very big." Fan Ning nodded.

"How big is it?"

"It's as big as Turner Hall." He gestured with open arms.

"What a cold joke." Xilan burst out laughing.

"I'm serious." Fan Ning blinked.

"Come on, to be honest, it's just a violin concerto, an old one will do. You can just arrange a few more performances in the future."

"No problem, then, let's go and rest."

The two stood up and Fan Ning sent her out of the door.

"Why are you so obsessed with the violin concerto, the kind that doesn't choose old or new works?" he asked again, leaning against the wall.

"I like it," the girl replied.

"Is there any special reason?"

"You should go to bed early and I'll tell you after the premiere."

After saying good night to each other, Sheeran waved her hand and disappeared behind the closed door.

"I'm just going to sleep." The door was closed when he said this.

The smile on Fan Ning's face did not stay for long, and she walked back to the desk step by step and sat down.

He wasn't sleepy at all.

Slowly leaning back, the score of "Second Symphony" was in his hands again.

This time he was flipping through the pages one by one, and all kinds of past events came to mind. Each piece of music reminded him of various scenes from his past creations, or the voices and smiles of those who died, as well as old letters and documents.

Reminiscing about the past of the old organist who was taught by Mr. Anton...

Led by the Santa Lenia Symphony Orchestra, the adventure of three people...

The condolence event for the poet Bassani, the scene of the out-of-control subway accident, the summer fragrance of the Saint-Overny Manor...

The creation of the old symphony orchestra from scratch, every detail of life in Turner Hall, the eyes of the children who received musical aid, the message wall of music fans, various interesting topics during the tea break, and impressionist painter friends

We, the unrepentant joy of the New Year's concert, Ms. Hamilton's funeral...

The midnight hours passed by hour by hour.

His finger paused on the last page.

There was a black and white photo of the New Year's concert, the back facing up.

He was ready to turn around, but he still couldn't make up his mind.

His eyes then turned to the bookshelf next to him.

Most of the books are scores, and many of the pages contain notes that have not been torn off yet. They were annotated by Kaplan when he borrowed them and returned them during the past year. There are bookmarks, time notes, and answers to assigned questions.

There is also a letter in the drawer under the bookshelf.

He began to read the letter again.

The font is extremely stretched and elegant, and the writing method of each letter is very familiar.

"...But the same spring does not necessarily mean the same joy. Pleasure or depression depends on how each person spends the winter. If you have not tried your best to fight against the harsh winter, you will not be able to appreciate the warmth of spring. If you have not experienced the uncertainty of gains and losses in destiny,

, you will not be able to appreciate the happiness that day when you have it.”

Under the gas lamp, in the rearview mirror, the retreating figure reappeared in my mind.

Thoughts wandering in summer nights.

There is also the lingering sadness that always lingers.

I don't know how much time passed, but Fan Ning started writing something at his desk again.

Finally, I stood in front of the window, looking at the white fish belly in the sky in the distance.

It's past half past five in the morning.

"Sunrise" and "dawn" are two synonyms for the rising of the sun.

But in Tulungarian, the collocation of one phrase is "the sunrise is coming", and the collocation of the other is "bringing the dawn".

This is really interesting.

It's as if the dawn is brought by people.

It's the subjective sight of the sunrise that leads to the arrival of a new day.

Just like the meaning of "Wu" in ancient languages, it has gone through a long evolution process of division and refinement.

But for some people, today "brings" the first dawn, for others, it is the last one, or even the one that "cannot be brought".

He thought like this until the sun rose from the skyline, until the smog and steel supports in the city were dyed with new colors.

Until he suddenly felt something strange in the spiritual environment around him.

It seemed like there were several walls pushing against me from all directions.

It was an existence whose degree of condensation and mysterious characteristics were far higher than my own. Even the "candle" spiritual sense that reached the limit of the ninth level could not penetrate and probe.

Before he could make a substantial response, a cold hand patted his shoulder.
To be continued...