He was so engrossed in his singing that he lost himself in it.

It's as if he's not singing for others, but questioning his own heart.

On behalf of the man named Shi Meng, and on behalf of countless wanderers, he was raising questions.

...

at the same time.

In a crowded tenement building outside the fifth ring road of Kyoto.

The doors and windows of the rented room, which was less than ten square meters, were sealed tightly with tape and wet towels.

It isolated them from the hustle and bustle of the outside world, and also from life.

The room was dark, with only a small pot of burning charcoal.

The dark red firelight illuminated a young face, yet it was etched with a gaunt appearance.

His name is Yang Ming, and he was once a young man who came to this city with dreams in his heart.

At that moment, he stared blankly at the leaping flames, his face expressionless.

There was only a numbness that felt almost like liberation.

Just like Shi Meng, the man who jumped off the bridge that Wang Yueheng rescued from the side of the bridge.

Several empty beer cans and a crushed sleeping pill blister pack were scattered at my feet.

This is my third month of unemployment.

Yang Ming, a project manager at an internet company who initially seemed to have a bright future.

It was ruthlessly optimized during a severe industry upheaval.

Savings are being depleted rapidly, and rent and loan repayment reminders are bombarding me like death knells every day.

Yesterday, my last job interview also failed.

The contemptuous look in the younger interviewer's eyes pierced his already battered pride like needles.

"There's no hope... there's really no hope..."

Yang Ming muttered to himself, feeling like a fish washed ashore.

Struggling desperately, it drifted further and further away from the water source.

Loneliness, debt, the label of a loser... like countless invisible hands, dragged him into the abyss.

He felt tired, extremely tired.

Perhaps, leaving quietly like this is the best relief.

He took one last look at this small, cluttered space that held his memories of three years as a migrant worker in Beijing.

Then he slowly closed his eyes, waiting for his consciousness to be carried away by carbon monoxide.

Just as my consciousness was about to be swallowed up by a heavy drowsiness.

His phone, which he had casually tossed on the bedside table and whose screen was already cracked, suddenly started playing a video automatically.

It was a live stream notification that he had been following, which was temporarily activated by a small streamer.

At first, he only heard a commotion, followed by the sound of a guitar.

"Halting so quickly? It's so noisy..."

Yang Ming instinctively wanted to turn off his phone and leave this world quietly.

But the guitar sound was deep and repetitive, as if it possessed a strange magic.

Like heavy footsteps, each step pierced through his numb nerves.

Gradually, the singing became clearer in his ears—

"We laugh here, we cry here."

"We live here, and we die here."

"We pray here, we are lost here."

"We search here, and we lose here..."

Yang Ming's tightly closed eyelids twitched slightly.

That voice, that feeling... it's so familiar.

Isn't this the same sense of bewilderment he felt when he first arrived in Kyoto, walking on unfamiliar yet bustling streets?

Is this some kind of divine intervention, a way for me to recall my past memories before I leave this world?

Accompanied by the faint sound of singing.

Scenes from the past flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern.

He laughed here—

The ecstasy of receiving my first job offer, the joy of dining with colleagues, the sweetness of kissing the girl who had long since left under the streetlights…

He cried here—

The frustration of being unreasonably criticized by a client, the loneliness of returning home late at night after working overtime, the guilt of not being able to be with a sick family member...

He lives here—

Squeezing onto subways so crowded you could be turned into a photograph, eating cold rice balls from convenience stores, staying up all night for a project...

Now, he will die here...