Hearing that Banxia had returned home, and brought her boyfriend, her childhood friends flocked to her house to see the excitement.

As soon as they entered, they smelled the delicious aroma of food wafting from the kitchen. Peeking through the window, they saw a handsome young man, his sleeves rolled up, quietly preparing breakfast.

It was rare to see a man cooking in their village, where it was generally accepted that men rested after work, let alone such a handsome and refined young man.

When Ling Dong entered the room with a plate of steaming egg dumplings, the girls all blushed.

“Education really does make a difference! Banxia’s city boyfriend is so gentle!”

“I’ve never seen my dad cook. Even if Mom comes home late, he just sits there watching TV.”

“He even knows how to make egg dumplings! He must have learned it just for you!”

The girls nudged Banxia, whispering among themselves.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Banxia asked, pretending to have a good memory. “He used to live here. He’s Grandpa Mu’s grandson, from next door.”

“Xiao Lian?”

“That Xiao Lian?”

“I remember! He was the prettiest boy in the village! You always made him play with you!”

“And you always made him play the princess, and you were the knight! No one else could play the knight!”

“So you had your eye on him all along! You sly fox!”

“Back then, I was too busy playing in the mud with Fatty to notice anything,” one of the girls sighed.

“No one has better taste than Banxia! No wonder she’s such a good violinist!”

Banxia, basking in their compliments, said, “Of course! I have excellent taste!”

“Who’s praising my sister’s taste? She has good ears, not good eyes. She can’t even remember all her relatives!” Banxia’s cousin, Huhu, entered the room, carrying his fat calico cat.

The cat, smelling the food, jumped from Huhu’s arms and headed straight for Ling Dong.

Banxia reacted instantly, catching the plate before it tipped over and pulling Ling Dong behind her protectively.

She placed the plate on the table and grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck, carrying it outside.

“Why did you bring your cat? I’m allergic to cats! Don’t ever bring it here again!” she scolded Huhu.

“What?” Huhu stared at her, dumbfounded. He had never known his fearless cousin to be afraid of anything, let alone a cat.

No one noticed Ling Dong’s pale face.

Despite being on winter break, Banxia hadn’t stopped practicing. After cleaning the house and preparing for the New Year with Ling Dong in the morning, she took her violin and went to a small bar in the village where she had once worked part-time, during her middle school years.

The bar’s owner, a middle-aged man with a penchant for the arts, had placed a piano near the entrance, occasionally hiring musicians to play for his customers, or allowing anyone who wanted to play to use it.

Back then, a young Banxia had often busked outside the bar after school, her violin case open for donations.

Her earnings had been meager, but no one had ever asked her to leave.

The owner had watched her play for a few days, then one day, had quietly placed a fifty-yuan bill in her case.

From then on, whenever she played there, he would either leave some money himself or have one of the bartenders do it, a silent agreement, an unspoken employment contract.

With the money she earned from busking and the owner’s “salary,” she had supported herself through middle school, paying for her violin lessons, even saving enough for university.

Now, the bar was old and worn, its business declining, and Banxia’s performance fees were much higher, but whenever she returned home during the school holidays, she would still play there occasionally.

The owner, seeing her, was always delighted, still leaving a fifty-yuan bill in her case. Her presence, her music, attracted customers.

Today, as she played, she met a foreign visitor.

The elderly man, his hair white, his face weathered, had joined her mid-performance, accompanying her on the old piano.

Though he was old, his playing was energetic and skillful.

Whether she played a classical piece like the Beethoven Violin Concerto or a popular movie theme song, he followed effortlessly, their music a perfect, impromptu duet.

Banxia glanced at him, then started playing “If I Only Had Seven Days,” one of Red Lotus’s songs.

The violin began, the melody telling a bittersweet story, and the piano joined in, its voice wise and gentle.

A lifetime in seven days, a fleeting eternity, a tragic love story, yet their music, despite the underlying sadness, was filled with a powerful, joyful energy, a celebration of love, of life, of every precious moment.

Their impromptu performance drew a crowd.

As the music ended, the elderly pianist stood up and shook Banxia’s hand, his eyes twinkling.

“I never expected to find such a talented young violinist in a small town like this!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious.

He wore a worn hiking jacket, his hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, his skin tanned, like a seasoned traveler.

Banxia felt like she had seen him somewhere before, but she couldn’t place him.

“I’m surprised too, to meet such a… distinguished musician. And you even know Red Lotus’s music!” Banxia gestured at his piano. “That song was just released recently.”

“I’ve been following him for a while now. I’m a big fan. His music… it reminds me of this place, of an old friend,” the old man said, his eyes filled with a wistful nostalgia.

“This town… it’s my friend’s hometown. And whenever I hear Mr. Lian’s music, I’m reminded of his violin playing,” he said.

As Banxia cycled home from the town, she heard a commotion coming from her house, a cat yowling angrily.

Before she could even open the door, Xiao Lian, in his gecko form, darted out through the gap beneath the door, scurried up her leg, and onto her shoulder, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Banxia grabbed the fat calico cat, which was hissing and spitting, clearly frustrated at having lost its prey, and carried it outside.

“What happened? How did the cat get in?” she asked, puzzled.

“I… I let it in,” Ling Dong said, his voice slightly breathless, his face pale as he leaned against the edge of the brick bed.

His bare chest, the warmth of the heated bed, made Banxia’s thoughts drift in a… decidedly inappropriate direction.

“It’s a bit embarrassing, being a grown man and… afraid of cats,” Ling Dong mumbled, his ears turning pink, his back to her. “I was trying to… overcome my fear. Desensitization therapy.”

“There are gentler methods of desensitization therapy,” Banxia said, picking up a tie from the floor and tying it around his eyes. “How about… a more… enjoyable approach?”

“Now, imagine I’m the calico cat. I’m a very good cat impersonator. Meow!” she purred, her tongue tracing the curve of his ear. “I’m going to bite you now. Nice and slow. Everywhere.”

Her playful nips and teasing scratches, like a cat’s playful paws and teeth, sent shivers down his spine.

Ling Dong had always been terrified of cats, ever since that night in the rainy forest, when a small house cat had seemed like a giant predator, its claws like scythes, its eyes glowing in the darkness.

But from this day forward, his fear would be mingled with a different kind of… sensation, a mixture of love and hate, the fear itself fading into the background.

Later, after their… playful interlude, Banxia, her arms wrapped around him, her lips against his neck, murmured, “Still afraid of cats? We can… continue this therapy… anytime you like.”

“I think… I’ve overcome my fear,” Ling Dong said, his voice husky with pleasure.

“Any other fears you want to… conquer?” Banxia asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Ling Dong turned, pulling her closer, his arms around her. “There are… other fears. But those… I have to face alone,” he said, his voice soft.

“What fears?” Banxia murmured, snuggling against him, her body seeking the warmth of his embrace.

“When I was a child, I idolized a pianist,” Ling Dong said, his voice quiet in the winter night.

“He was a friend of my grandfather’s. I heard him play once, in my grandfather’s courtyard. His music was… heavenly. It left a lasting impression on me, shaped my musical style, my aspirations,” he continued.

“He even patted my head and said I was a gifted pianist,” he said, a hint of wistful nostalgia in his voice.

“Being praised by my idol… it was one of my most cherished memories, a source of inspiration, a reason to keep practicing, to keep striving.”

“Years later, I saw him again, the day I won the Rachmaninoff Competition. He was one of the judges. But he looked at me with… disappointment, and said my music had lost its… spark, its innocence,” Ling Dong’s voice dropped, the memory clearly painful. “It hurt, but I knew he was right. I had already begun to doubt myself, my music. His words… they were the final blow.”

“After that, I became afraid… afraid of performing, afraid of… facing him again.”

He kissed her hair. “But it’s different now. I’m going to see him again, let him hear my music, my… true music.”

Banxia squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance.

“You might even know him,” Ling Dong said. “He’s a very famous pianist. Maestro William.”

Banxia’s eyes widened. “That’s why he looked so familiar!” she exclaimed.

Ling Dong looked at her, puzzled. “You’ve met him?”

Banxia grinned. “Don’t worry, he already loves your music.”