Carmen is a spirit of freedom.

There lives a different Carmen in everyone’s heart.

——

Carmen is a simple tale.

A worker at the tobacco factory, Carmen, a charming Gypsy girl, falls in love with the army sergeant Don José, and soon the two are swept into a passionate affair.

After falling for Carmen, Don José leaves his wife, but their personalities clash so sharply that conflict escalates between them. In the end, the resolute Carmen chooses to end the relationship.

Despite Don José’s repeated pleas, he cannot win back Carmen’s heart. At the very moment when the crowd cheers for Carmen’s new lover, Don José draws his dagger.

A cold flash, and Carmen falls into a pool of blood.

She collapses into the arms of the man she once loved.

Undoubtedly, the harsh ending of this story lays bare the cruelty of real life, leaving a heavy weight on the heart, but it has also inspired countless musicians with dreams and imagination.

In the world of music, anyone can be Carmen.

Each performer can freely express strong personal style and emotional shifts.

Because in every person’s heart, there lives a different Carmen.

The somber first theme seems to plant the seeds of that tragic end.

The moving quality of Chen Xuan’s performance lies in her refusal to choose a delicate, feminine tone for Carmen simply because she is a female character. Instead, with a neutral, pure sound, like a narrator, she tells the story gently and steadily.

The entire passage relies solely on appropriate contrasts in dynamics to set the atmosphere, preparing fully and fluidly for the next theme.

As the first theme ends, Chen Xuan pauses slightly, her fingers slowing.

The second theme, with its deep, melancholic melody, moves towards death with every breath, every touch of her lips and tongue, each step heavy and inevitable.

An inhale and exhale—each one a grave note.

Every articulation is a phrase, each phrase building upon the last, the mood onstage growing ever more solemn.

Then, after a pair of low, ascending measures, Chen Xuan lifts her head.

With three forceful syncopated transitions, a piercing, mocking note bursts from the silver flute and shoots up to the hall’s vault.

As if trying to break through some invisible barrier, it circles several times before vanishing into the stifling air.

Li An senses that, in the final echoes of this passage, Chen Xuan harbors emotions she wishes to express.

Yet at this moment, she does not follow the composer’s original markings of gradually slowing and softening. Instead, she maintains a calm, steady medium tempo to the end.

Though this approach contradicts the melody of the middle section, upon closer listening, it reveals a unique and stunning flavor.

Li An hears defiance in her interpretation.

Defiance is also Carmen—even under the tolling bell of doom, she never alters her stride.

After a few furtive, comical staccatos, Chen Xuan’s fingers quicken, the music turning into a frantic escape.

The rhythm alternates between urgency and restraint, the descending triplets landing solidly, each entrance smooth, as if everything is carefully planned.

Suddenly, the music halts amid a slur of half notes.

A long transition passes. When the journey resumes, the music shifts again; under the repeated interplay of strength and speed, the flute’s voice is like a fawn lost in the woods.

After a flurry of dazzling notes, Chen Xuan inhales softly, sending the music into a tranquil garden called Habanera.

The second theme ends.

Her lips move again, and at last the timbre of the flute begins to change.

Where once it was pure, now, in the bright, Gypsy rhythms, it becomes radiant.

With the arrival of the third, most famous theme, the melody unfolds passionately, and Chen Xuan’s playing seems to relax.

But the seductive, coquettish spirit of the Gypsy woman that this section demands is not present in her flute or fingers.

Whether violin, flute, or piano, each instrument would use its own timbral qualities to interpret Carmen, to give her life and charm.

In Chen Xuan’s performance, the flute’s sound is quieter, more serene, less wild, more rational.

In the ensuing variations of shifting triplets and semitones, she reveals only a hint of liveliness, never the slightest touch of flirtation.

Let alone the innate, fatal allure that is Carmen’s essence.

Only in the final, candid expression does her flute reveal a fleeting trace of feminine charm.

It vanishes in a heartbeat.

Li An had never before heard such a reserved Carmen, but he could not deny that the Carmen born at Chen Xuan’s lips and fingertips was the one that captivated him most.

Just like Chen Xuan herself—stubborn yet rational, reserved but sincere.

Listening to the music, Li An felt the flute case in his hand grow heavier.

…

Some things, once done, cannot be changed, no matter when Wang Panpan arrives.

So, the first moment he saw Wang Panpan, Li An chose to retreat and avoid her, because he was afraid.

That night, wandering the campus of Rongcheng Conservatory, after truly giving up his own insistence and taking on another’s perspective, he felt that there was no longer any possibility between himself and Chen Xuan.

Unable to explain anything, he tacitly admitted to what he had done.

Having gained Samir’s teaching notes, he spent the following days immersed in new fingering studies, unable to extricate himself, and hardly thought about Chen Xuan at all.

He thought that would be the end of it.

But that night, seeing Chen Xuan flustered and helpless backstage, he couldn’t help but reach out.

Hearing her stomach growl, he offered her his own midnight snack.

He didn’t think much about what Chen Xuan would make of this.

Perhaps, just as she had called him to eat lunch, or entrusted her flute case to him before going onstage.

Perhaps Chen Xuan hadn’t thought much of it either.

These subtle, self-evident gestures reminded Li An of that noon at the practice room door.

Perhaps.

Perhaps it was nothing more than two grown-ups being childish with each other.

Even if it was only his own wishful thinking… but when nothing has ever begun, how could there possibly be an end?

Once more, he gazed at the slender, elegant figure holding her flute onstage.

A lithe form with graceful curves, fair neck, exquisite jawline, straight nose, focused eyes, and a calm, distant expression.

In everyone’s heart, there lives a different Carmen.

At that moment, Li An felt as if Chen Xuan was the Carmen in his heart.

In an instant, a spark flared up inside him—a flame not yet extinguished.

He exhaled softly.

Never before had Li An felt so clear-headed.

No one should be condemned forever by a single mistake.

Smiling, he clenched the case in his hand even tighter.

Onstage, the fourth theme approached its end, and Chen Xuan’s gaze grew serene once more.

Having traversed the climactic, defiant final section of the tale, she closed the piece with a brisk, free double-tongued flourish—powerful and resolute.

A heart yearning for freedom must tread firmly at every step.

She lowered her flute.

Hand over heart, she bowed.

A wave of applause surged from the stage to the wings, and Li An hastened his search. In a pile of discarded props, he finally found a delicate white artificial flower.

“Sir, may I have this flower?”

“If you want it, go ahead, take it.”

With Chen Xuan stepping offstage, the performance assessment for select teachers at Yudong Campus came to a perfect close.

Parents, guiding their children, rose from their seats, lingering as they left the second-floor hall of Huayang Theater.

——

Carmen is a spirit of freedom. Anyone can be Carmen, but not everyone can become Carmen.

Life always opens its doors to the brave.

“May I take it with me?”