Thirteen Bass

Chapter 1 [1] Prelude

It is also midsummer.

On an ordinary and sunny afternoon, Bai Lang peeped through the bright crack of the door to an unprecedentedly enthusiastic performance.

In my memory, the clean and bright floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunlight dyed mint green by the leaves, the sunlight stretched the corridor very long, like the forest greenhouse in the Wizard of Oz.

On the other side of the closed door of the piano room, the molten golden sunlight rushed out with the dancing notes, just like the shadow of the backlight that the glass door could not block, was cast in front of Bai Lang's figure.

The sound of the piano flows continuously from under the strings, and the theme of the eight bars changes into thousands of melodies, and each string of variations exudes a colorful atmosphere.

The polyphonic chords are decomposed so naturally and cleanly, the treble is as bright as a bird, and the bass is heavy and encompasses everything.

Bach, Chaconne.

With the cello on his back, Bai Lang stood blankly outside the practice room.

He had never heard such a tone.

That person actually used the thin tone of a violin to play a magnificent melody comparable to an entire symphony orchestra.

The music seemed to be given life by him. In just ten minutes, he heard crying, ups and downs, joy, aging and sadness.

The first theme in D minor is solemn and decisive, like an evening bell in the dark at dusk.Passing through Variation No.16, the picture suddenly changed, D major is like a majestic wave rushing towards you, enthusiasm and joy gradually piled up, and the gods came to the world, emitting a light that is hard to see directly. Variation 24 ends, the afterglow falls into the mountains, the picture disappears, and pathos embraces D minor again, falling into boundless death.

One pair of hands, one bow, four strings.

Bai Lang didn't dare to breathe at all.

The figure against the light was pulled out of a blue-green shadow, bright enough to look like a ignited fire.

The tuxedo and the tight bow are melted into water by memory, shining brightly.

In the illusory dream, the shadow against the light suddenly raised his head, his eyes were precisely on the boy behind the door, and he showed a gentle smile.

Bai Lang had been standing here for a long time, his shoulders were stained with sweat from the cello, and his skin was almost burnt by the particularly vicious North American sun.

Time seemed to stand still, and then seemed to creak and slide forward at the next moment.

The author says:

Because of misoperation, there is a chapter missing in the serial number, let’s look at it according to the chapter name