Nanny Chen Chunhua stood outside the piano room, her steps unconsciously drawn to the flowing piano music. The door was half-open, and she didn't dare to rush in. She could only glimpse the boy's back through the gap.
Crystal chandeliers cast diamond-like spots of light on the Italian Carrara marble floor.
The setting sun slanted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dancing on the black and white piano keys, and also falling on Ye Qingliu's slightly swaying black hair, with tiny halos faintly flickering between the hair.
Ye Qingliu sat at the piano, his black hair hanging down to his ears, his white neck exposed from the collar of his school uniform. His fingers were long and slender, with distinct joints, and as they rose and fell on the keys, they resembled a flock of white doves flapping their wings in the morning light.
The sound of the piano came out, it was Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude", and Chen Chunhua suddenly felt her eyes getting hot.
She noticed that the boy's school uniform sleeves were slightly rolled up, revealing a section of his graceful forearm. As the melody rose and fell, the outline of his muscles became faintly visible.
Eleven years ago, it was the same scene. She was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old then. When she first stepped into the Ye family's gate, she heard the sound of the piano following her, and saw a little figure like a snowball sitting on the piano stool, its feet not even able to reach the pedals, dangling gently in the air.
The six-year-old Ye Qingliu was playing the third chapter of "Moonlight Symphony". His fingers were as round as lotus root nodes, jumping clumsily on the keys. Every time he pressed the keys hard, his cheeks would bulge unconsciously.
The sunlight shone through the gauze curtains, giving it a furry golden edge, and even the fine hairs were clearly visible.
Now, the golden edge has become a cool outline. The boy's shoulders have been straightened, and the curve of his neck is like carefully fired white porcelain, shining with a warm luster in the sun.
Ye Qingliu suddenly stopped playing in the middle, his left hand hung in the air for a moment, his slender fingers slightly curled up, as if he was thinking about something, and then started again from the beginning.
Chen Chunhua saw the shadows cast by his eyelashes under his eyes when he frowned, like two small crescent moons, trembling slightly as he blinked.
Ye Qingliu's knuckles turned slightly white due to the force, but they maintained an elegant curve, and every note seemed to flow naturally from his fingertips.
Chen Chunhua vaguely recalled the child who called her "Auntie Huahua" in a baby voice. Now even his breathing had a distant rhythm, and the rise and fall of his chest was almost imperceptible.
But the piano lacquer surface still showed his profile to be surprisingly delicate. The line from the bridge of nose to the chin looked as if someone had drawn it with a wolf-hair brush dipped in moonlight, and even the curvature of the jaw was just right.
Chen Chunhua looked at Ye Qingliu's back, which rose and fell with his breathing. Tiny gold dust floated on the dark blue fabric of his uniform, trembling gently with the ripples of Chopin's E-flat major.
Suddenly, a draft blew across the music score. When the seventeen-year-old Ye Qingliu reached out to press the page, the light reflected from the watch jumped onto his pale blue blood vessels - that was another kind of string that time had buried under his skin.
The glass window hummed and picked up the vibration of the bass. She saw the arc of the hair on the back of the boy's neck soaked with sweat, like the tips of the new feathers of a baby bird.
When I carried him to the piano bench, the aroma of milk mixed with the scent of cherry blossoms would always linger in my arms. But now, what floats in the air is the scent of pine piano wax and the unique, lime-like, cool sweat of a teenager.
In the most gentle section of the nocturne, he suddenly shifted his center of gravity to his left arm. This small movement, exactly the same as when he was six years old, made the faintly protruding shoulder blade under his uniform look like a white butterfly flapping its wings, ready to fly.
As dusk completely sank into the bass clef, Ye Qingliu's left ring finger was trembling on the A flat key.
Chen Chunhua saw the hair behind his ear blown up by the air conditioner, revealing a small light pink scar on his earlobe - that was the mark left by the cake candle on his sixth birthday.
At this moment, the light pink is rising and falling with the crescendoing chords, as if the last cherry blossom in late spring is falling into the surging sea.
When the last note fell, Ye Qingliu turned his head to look at the door. The sunlight just passed over his brow bone, casting a light shadow on his tall nose.
Only then did Chen Chunhua realize that there was a teardrop mole at the corner of his eye, like an accidentally splashed ink spot, adding a bit of liveliness to his cold face.
The seventeen-year-old boy looked at her like this, his eyes as clear as the morning mist in early winter, with tiny specks of light on his eyelashes, flickering gently as he blinked.
His lips were very pale and slightly pursed, with an almost imperceptible dimple at the corner of his mouth, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.
The lingering sound of the last chord still vibrated in the air, and Ye Qingliu's fingers hovered above the keys, like a white butterfly briefly pausing.
His wrist bones were slightly raised, and beads of sweat slid down the pale blue veins, condensing into amber in the evening light.
"Aunt Chen."
The sound of Ye Qingliu was very light, but it was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples in the silence of the piano room.
Chen Chunhua was in a trance for a moment, as if she saw the little boy ten years ago standing on tiptoe to reach the piano keys, calling her "Chen Ayi" in a baby voice, his pronunciation as vague as if he was holding a piece of candy in his mouth.
But now, his voice has lost its childishness and has the clearness unique to teenagers, but it sinks slightly at the end, as if he is unconsciously acting coquettishly.
Ye Qingliu turned his head to look at her, his eyelashes casting tiny shadows on his eyelids. When the air-conditioning wind blew past, the light pink scar behind his ear was faintly visible - when he was six years old, the flame of the birthday candle had stayed there briefly, leaving a small mark.
Chen Chunhua still remembers that he didn't cry at the time. He just opened his eyes wide, buried his face in her apron, and said muffledly: "Auntie Chen, the cake smells so good."
And now, the seventeen-year-old Ye Qingliu tilted his head slightly, a button on the collar of his uniform was loose, and there was a little reflection of the piano keys on his collarbone.
He reached out and brushed the sweat-soaked hair on the back of his neck, his fingertips drawing a subtle arc in the air, just like when he habitually reached out to her after practicing the piano as a child.
This chapter is not over yet, please click on the next page to continue reading!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
