Wronged, Listeners Each Harboring Their Own Thoughts

If Li An knew what Qin Yong was thinking at this moment, he would certainly cry out at the injustice. There was a great misunderstanding here.

First, he had not deliberately concealed anything; this was not a novel, after all—there was no need for such calculated ups and downs. As for “Appassionata,” Li An was fully aware of his current limits and the unresolved issues within his playing. He knew just how far he could push the piece.

Moreover, he had already slipped out of his “spinning top” mindset. This was now the scene of a skills assessment. Even Lin Pengfei knew to play it safe—would he be the fool to do otherwise?

Finally, these past two days, he was in a special period of trying to establish new finger muscle memory. If something went wrong, it could spell disaster, and that was the last thing he wanted. As a rational pianist, Li An had to execute the piece according to his preplanned interpretation on stage. Whether it was the powerful chords that painted the opening’s musical image, or the current, steady musical flow, these had all been mapped out the moment he drew the piece.

There was no question of holding back his abilities.

The music progressed steadily to measure 142, where new musical material emerged. Here, Li An’s right arm was permitted a grander sweep. As he entered measure 146, with the left hand’s steady bass tremolo as an anchor, his right hand shot up into the air before falling straight down in a precise, forceful yet suddenly subdued octave syncopation, elevating the intensity of the melody.

A restless undercurrent began to surge once more within the music, rolling onward.

This, in fact, was just a bit of dramatic stagecraft Li An had developed in his regular practice of “Appassionata”—a sophisticated kind of self-entertainment and audience engagement. His gestures helped him feel the music more deeply and enhanced his stage presence.

Yet it was this unrestrained, effortless moment that utterly captivated Ji Yang in the audience. The “Spinning Top” Etude earlier had been as clear and transparent as a CD recording, while now, in the serene passages of “Appassionata,” there was a gentle, unyielding tenacity.

What a glorious performance.

In Ji Yang’s eyes, at this moment, Li An was nothing less than a true pianist. She even conjured up a vivid image in her mind—

Li An, a young pianist of great talent, languishing in obscurity, forced to eke out a living by teaching since he had no stage on which to shine.

She was filled with only one thought: she wanted to study piano with Li An!

Forget about Professor Yu, forget about studying abroad. That Lin Fei who just came back from Germany wasn’t nearly as good as her teacher Li!

Ji Yang stared at the stage, afraid to miss a single frame, her hands unconsciously gripping the backrest in front of her. She had transformed completely into Li An’s little fan.

Beside her, Ji Chenguang enjoyed the music with contentment, wishing that someday Yangyang could sit on stage and play such a piece for him.

Hu Rong, however, watching the stage, found her thoughts far more complicated.

After her conversation with Li An the previous night, she was already wavering in her determination to send Ji Yang abroad at the end of the year. In her subconscious, even if Ji Yang didn’t go abroad for her undergraduate studies, she must at least attend a proper conservatory in the country. Her gaze naturally fell on Rongcheng Conservatory of Music, the nearest to home.

But if that were the case, what point was there in continuing lessons with Professor Yu? After six sessions, it was clear to her that, as an accompanist, Li An had been of far more help to her daughter than Professor Yu. Li An’s own teacher was Professor Wei, who was also the piano department head at Rongcheng Conservatory.

Weighing everything together, and seeing Li An’s seamless performance on stage, she was finally entertaining the idea of changing teachers for Ji Yang. Much like Ji Yang herself—though her eyes were on the man behind Li An.

Compared to Ji Yang’s excitement, Yu Xiaobei appeared far calmer. Xiaobei tilted her head, eyes bright as she watched Li An on stage, feeling immensely proud. This was her favorite teacher. She planned to write a holiday journal entry tonight, titled “My Piano Teacher.”

Secretly, she made a little wish: that one day she might play on stage like this, and Mr. Li would be proud of her from the audience. The thought made her so excited that she unconsciously clutched the hem of her mother’s shirt.

Xiaobei’s mother glanced at her focused daughter and then returned her attention to the camera lens. She had always been satisfied with Li An’s teaching; as for his performance, she felt little about it. The video was simply for Xiaobei to watch and learn from. In her mind, she didn’t want Xiaobei to get too invested in music. She believed that the real priority now was getting into a top middle school next year.

Liu Fengrui, for his part, much preferred the Chopin Etude earlier; he didn’t care for “Appassionata,” finding it unpleasant. But as a student, he kept such thoughts to himself and planned to butter up his teacher at next Wednesday’s lesson in hopes of learning more pieces he liked.

The other children listened to the music, but Wang Xiaohu was different. He was listening to a state of being. As long as Li An was playing and he was listening, that was enough. He didn’t care what Li An played; the important thing was that he was here—he wasn’t the kind of person who would let a friend down.

“Mom, don’t fall asleep yet,” Xiaohu whispered to Xu Li beside him.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Xu Li drawled, gently brushing the back of Xiaohu’s head.

Leaning her right elbow on the armrest, she supported her face with her hand, her body turned sideways, eyes half-closed as she looked toward the stage, as if she might drift off at any moment.

She had met her son’s current piano teacher, and he certainly played well—she just wasn’t sure about his character. She was planning to invite Li An to dinner; if the conversation went well, she’d ask him to come teach Xiaohu at home. Before returning to Rongcheng this time, she had already quit all her jobs—she never wanted to be separated from her son again.

As the final musical motif appeared, Li An once again raised his hands high above the piano.

He struck the keys.

A resounding clang.

He lifted his hands and struck again.

A long, ringing chord.

Again, the scorching sound of the piano seemed to burst forth in waves, filling every corner of the hall.

Finally, as silence settled over the auditorium, Li An straightened his back, raised his hands one last time, and brought them down.

A short, emphatic chord rang through the hall.

He raised his hands.

Stood up.

Closed the lid.

Bowed.

And in the next instant—

A tidal wave of applause erupted, threatening to lift the stage itself.

“Brother An!” Xu Hongxin shouted, whistling without a care for decorum. Ma Tao turned his face away but kept his hands clapping. Even Wang Panpan, in her heart, was full of admiration—after all, this was her senior from Rongcheng Conservatory.

At the backstage door, Chen Xuan, who had at some point leaned against the doorframe, joined the rest in applauding Li An.

Li An looked up with a smile, just in time to see two figures rushing toward the stage.

Wang Xiaohu had been waiting with his bouquet for this very moment, nearly reaching the stage—when suddenly, a girl he hadn’t noticed before darted out and actually beat him to it.

Not to be outdone, Wang Xiaohu saw her leap onto the stage and, thinking quickly, called out:

“Teacher!”—striking first with a show of initiative.