Between stillness and motion, a descent.

There are no explicit regulations requiring teachers at social art training institutions to possess substantial stage performance experience. Nor do all graduates from music colleges or university music departments have the opportunity to perform on stage during their academic journey.

At this moment, Old Dong returned backstage from the stage.

"Jia, it's your turn."

Jia Lu took a deep breath and, watched by three pairs of eyes, walked onto the stage.

A wave of applause surged from the audience.

Two staff members followed, carrying her guzheng.

When Li An returned to the mixing room below, Chen Xuan had already finished washing her hands and was back.

His gaze fell beside Chen Xuan's thigh, where his boxed meal, originally saved for a late-night snack, had dwindled to almost nothing. A large chicken drumstick, save for its skin, had been gnawed down to a bare bone.

"The skin of a braised chicken drumstick is the essence," Li An felt a bit regretful.

"The skin is all fat," Chen Xuan said, letting out a cute, contented burp.

On stage, Jia Lu had settled herself. As the applause faded, she plucked her instrument, the first two bars treated freely, sliding into two rippling grace notes like waves on a lake.

From the third bar, she entered tempo, the concert hall gradually enveloped in an ancient, poetic atmosphere.

Jia Lu was playing "Four Auspicious Harmonies," also known as "The Bridge," one of the eight great pieces of Jiangnan silk and bamboo, a representative guzheng work from Jiangsu and Zhejiang. With lively rhythms and beautiful melodies, it paints a picture of the lush waters and green hills of the south, expressing the delicate and moving sentiments of its people.

The piece was excellent, but Li An had no leisure to appreciate it now. After Jia Lu finished, it would be his turn, so he decided to review his two pieces one final time.

He opened to Op. 25, No. 2, and his gaze slowly traced the first bar.

He murmured quietly, following the notes:

"2, 1-3-2-1-4-3, 1-3-2-1-4-5"

"1-3-2-1-4-3, 1-3-2-1-5"

"…"

Li An recited numbers, but with a melodic pitch. Yet the pitch did not directly correspond to the numbered notation; Chen Xuan quickly realized that the numbers in Li An's mouth were some kind of fingering.

Glancing at the score, she saw so many notes—if every note required memorizing its fingering, wouldn't a single piece demand memorizing a thousand fingerings?

She suddenly felt admiration for pianists. In the same bar, a flutist only needed to remember one line, but pianists must remember two staves (for left and right hands), plus the fingerings.

Driven by curiosity, Chen Xuan quietly placed her right hand on her thigh, gently moving her fingers in time with Li An's numbers.

"1-5-4, 3-4-3-2-1-2, 3-5-3-1-2-4"

"3-4-3-2-1, 3-4-3-2-3-1"

The beginning was manageable.

But when it came to "4-3-2-1, 4-5-3-2, 3-1-2-4, 3-2-4-2-1," her ring finger suddenly stalled.

She tried twice more:

3-1-2-4-3-2-4-2-1

3-1-2-4-3-2-4-2-1

A bit slower was fine…

…

Fifteen minutes later, as the passionate third movement reached its final page, applause rolled in from the front. Li An closed the score and set it aside.

He stood up and stretched.

Onstage, Jia Lu gave a bow. A young girl ran up with a bouquet, handed it to Jia Lu, then shyly scampered off.

The atmosphere in the venue rose again.

Old Dong, seeing the timing was right, went onstage to introduce the next teacher.

"It's my turn."

Flexing his fingers, Li An took a step forward.

"Your score."

Chen Xuan called out from behind.

Li An paused and turned back, smiling, "You underestimated me, didn't you?"

That familiar smile, that familiar tone.

Chen Xuan was reminded of their first month together, those moments after class when they stood at the classroom door with their water cups, waiting for the next student.

Li An would talk to her like this, telling her that teaching children required patience.

"No."

She bowed her head, tucking a stray lock behind her ear, then pursed her lips and softly added,

"Good luck."

Just then, "Mr. Li, Mr. Li, don’t just stand there!"

Two urgent voices called from the stage door, "It's your turn!"

…

A new wave of applause erupted.

Stepping onto the stage, accompanied by applause and a warm spotlight overhead, Li An walked steadily to the piano.

He wore no fitted black tuxedo or elegant white shirt—just a simple black T-shirt and jeans.

He turned toward the piano, bowed to the audience.

In that moment, he and the piano seemed as one.

Down in the audience, Ji Yang felt it was strange, cool, and funny all at once.

Other teachers were dressed in formal attire, but his teacher was so, so casual.

Elsewhere, Liu Fengrui was nudged awake by his father, "Wake up, it's Mr. Li's turn."

Rubbing his eyes, Liu Fengrui sat up groggily—the guzheng performance had lulled him to sleep, but now, seeing the figure at the piano, he perked up immediately.

Two rows behind Liu Fengrui, Yu Xiaobei’s gaze was filled with admiration. Beside her, her mother continued filming the stage with her phone.

At the first seat on the right aisle, Song Sheng held his son and said, "Song Muzi, this uncle is your future piano teacher. Daddy’s paying for your lessons, so you must study hard with him, understand?"

The five-year-old Song Muzi nodded in bewilderment.

"Hurry up, Mom, hurry!"

At that moment, in the Huayang Theatre parking lot, a white Mercedes had barely parked. Inside, Wang Xiaohu was on the verge of tears, clutching a bouquet and shouting to the woman in the driver’s seat.

Xu Li couldn’t fathom what kind of piano teacher could enchant Xiaohu so thoroughly.

Had her son become enlightened after a few months? Suddenly taken to the piano?

Unbelievable.

She knew her child all too well.

So, the moment she returned home from the airport, without even changing clothes, she brought her son straight here.

She didn’t mind being tired, so long as Xiaohu was happy. Besides, she wanted to see what magic this teacher possessed.

After parking, she got out and led Wang Xiaohu toward the theater.

Several minor incidents happened almost simultaneously—on stage, only a dozen seconds had passed.

Li An settled himself, adjusted the height of the bench, and under the eyes of the whole audience, took a white handkerchief from his pocket.

He wiped his hands, then calmly put the handkerchief away.

Silence.

The stage was utterly still.

Even the audience’s breathing seemed drawn in by his every movement.

He exhaled softly, then extended his hands.

Ten fingers touched the cool keys; Li An took a deep breath, and his right second finger fell onto the group C of the keyboard in a dropping motion.

A clear, gentle note sounded, like a small stone falling into a calm lake.

The ink-like timbre wrapped everyone in the hall in the tenderest embrace, as if from a lover.

Between stillness and movement,

Li An's hands began to dance.

His right hand on the keyboard darted like a bee among flowers.

So light, so purposeful—each landing point was precise, never lingering.

The piano sound had a crisp, tactile quality, leaping forward in rapid succession.

The pulse of the music grew stronger with each phrase; Chopin’s unique elegance and fluency radiated instantly from the piano, flowing effortlessly to every corner of the stage.

Unnoticed, the atmosphere in the hall gradually began to change again.