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*Chapter 1166: The Dark Horse of the Year*

The Butterfly Effect became a massive hit in the North American market, taking the box office by storm. This was, without a doubt, the year's biggest surprise—something no one saw coming, not even New Line Cinema itself.

However, the real shock came when The Butterfly Effect exploded in international markets as well, leaving everyone in awe.

According to statistics, the film’s highest overseas box office earnings came from France. This result was completely unexpected—a $37 million haul stunned industry experts.

Could it be because of Catch Me If You Can?

The film had strong ties to France and performed well there when it was released last year, showcasing Anson’s rising popularity. From fashion to film, Anson had left a series of iconic moments in Paris.

Curious media outlets investigated the French market to understand this phenomenon and discovered a surprising yet logical answer: the Cannes Film Festival.

Instinctively, people assumed it was due to Elephant winning the Palme d'Or. However, the investigation revealed that Cannes itself played a significant role.

At this year’s Cannes Film Festival, Anson’s stylish appearance sparked widespread discussion. His confident handling of an unexpected incident on the red carpet at the closing ceremony further solidified his glowing reputation. During the festival, Anson’s warm, approachable, and professional demeanor left a deep impression on fans, earning widespread admiration.

Adding to the buzz was the European street tour by the August 31st band, which generated massive excitement.

Although Elephant proved Anson’s refined cinematic taste, the film had yet to be released for public evaluation. Nevertheless, his off-screen persona had already garnered extensive recognition in France.

- "Authentic and magnetic."

- "Elegant yet thoughtful—someone who reflects deeply while staying humble."

- "You notice him because of his looks, but you stay for his depth."

- "Admiration and respect."

- "Talk to him, and you’ll realize his film knowledge might surpass yours, and his philosophical and fashion sensibilities might outshine yours. He’s nothing like the stereotype."

No one expected Anson to have such profound influence in France.

The release of The Butterfly Effect in France attracted unprecedented attention.

Interestingly, among the five alternate endings of the film, the fifth version generated the highest box office earnings in France—a stark contrast to North America, where the second version dominated.

In the U.S., audiences gravitated toward the Hollywood-style happy ending, despite hardcore fans' preferences. The market’s response explains why Hollywood persists in churning out such endings.

But France was different.

In this philosophical land, where critical thinking is part of the middle school curriculum, audiences approached films with a contemplative mindset. To them, the five endings represented choices and consequences, each to be faced and accepted. This philosophical perspective resonated deeply.

The result? The Butterfly Effect achieved exceptional box office success in France.

Similarly, the U.K. market wasn’t far behind.

Although The Butterfly Effect couldn't outmatch The Lord of the Rings in the U.K., Anson still proved to be a formidable box office draw, with the film earning $36 million, just shy of France's total.

These results far exceeded expectations.

Neither New Line Cinema nor the local distributors in various countries were prepared for this level of success. Anson’s undeniable box office appeal had become a proven fact—numbers don’t lie.

By breaking barriers in cinema and gaining recognition in fashion, music, and culture, Anson was rapidly evolving into an international superstar.

In The Butterfly Effect, his solo lead performance proved his mettle for the first time. Ultimately, the film’s overseas earnings delivered a staggering $250 million.

Hollywood was in shock.

- "Anson Wood: The Birth of a Global Superstar."

- "For the second consecutive year, Anson Wood dominates the holiday box office."

- "The miracle continues: The Butterfly Effect tops the global weekend box office for the third straight week."

- "The Anson phenomenon is spreading."

- "The Butterfly Effect: How did this phenomenon conquer the market?"

Cheers, applause, and admiration erupted everywhere!

The Butterfly Effect was not only a success overseas but also managed to outpace its domestic box office performance—something rare in Hollywood.

After its North American double-weekend box office win, industry experts had already predicted the film’s strong international performance, thanks to its universal themes. Yet, few anticipated that international earnings would surpass domestic ones, a feat that marks a significant achievement.

Now, people were reevaluating Anson. The “pretty face” stereotype no longer fit—he was becoming a cultural phenomenon of the millennium.

The Butterfly Effect concluded its global run with a total box office gross of $480 million, narrowly missing the $500 million milestone. But that didn’t matter—at all.

In 2002, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, a film without major stars or significant promotion, became a word-of-mouth sensation. It achieved an astonishing $240 million box office gross domestically on a modest $5 million budget, cementing itself as an extraordinary underdog success. However, the film's Greek cultural focus limited its international appeal, ultimately earning $127 million overseas for a global total of $367 million.

Until now, My Big Fat Greek Wedding was Hollywood’s greatest low-budget success story. But The Butterfly Effect had arrived to eclipse it.

With a mere $10 million production budget, The Butterfly Effect raked in $480 million worldwide.

So what if it fell short of $500 million? No one cared, nor should they, because The Butterfly Effect had etched its name in film history as a groundbreaking underdog phenomenon, unlikely to be surpassed anytime soon.

Not just the dark horse of the year—it was arguably the greatest underdog in cinematic history.

A wave of global fervor had swept across the world.

And even after the film’s run ended, its lasting impact was only beginning.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1167: Lingering Aftermath

“10% profit and capital gets exploited everywhere; 20%, and it becomes active; 50%, and it’s willing to take risks.

100% profit makes capital trample the law; 300%, and it dares to commit any crime, even risk the gallows.”

So, what does a $10 million production cost that rakes in $480 million at the global box office represent?

Of course, box office revenue isn’t the same as actual profit—there’s a clear distinction—but for Hollywood, these numbers are more than enough.

*Collective frenzy!*

Quite literally.

Suddenly, all eyes turned to the crew of The Butterfly Effect.

Rachel McAdams, Heath Ledger, and the rest of the cast became overnight sensations, standing under the bright lights of fame. At the center of the storm was Anson himself.

While the actors had agents to shield them from Hollywood's frenzy, the two directors and screenwriters had no such protection—exposed and vulnerable, they faced the tidal wave of mania with bare hands.

Both Eric and Mackie initially believed this was the dream they had been chasing—standing in the spotlight of Hollywood’s fame and fortune.

But with no buffer or preparation, being thrust into it all at once was overwhelming. The happiness and joy lasted just three seconds before anxiety set in.

Dazzling and overwhelming.

At the core of it, Eric and Mackie were just nerdy guys who had quietly lived for over seven years in the shadows of Los Angeles. They still resided in a shabby shared apartment because the box office bonuses hadn’t yet arrived. Yet, they suddenly became the focus of all Hollywood. The stark contrast was too much to handle.

At first, Eric and Mackie excitedly embraced the attention:

Money. Fame. Love. Success. Everything came pouring in. They were on top of the world.

And indeed, major studios and countless producers swarmed them, eager to see if Eric and Mackie had other scripts in hand or if The Butterfly Effect had plans for a sequel.

Eric: …

Mackie: …

The two were stunned.

They had spent seven whole years honing the script for The Butterfly Effect, pouring all their energy into it. There were no other projects. And a sequel? What nonsense was that?

Even New Line Cinema, the film’s distributor, approached the directors immediately.

A sequel!

What? No sequel?

No problem—if they didn’t have one now, they could start working on it.

Eric and Mackie started feeling the pressure. Fame came too fast, leaving them no time to reflect on their next step. They were swept into a mirage-like storm created by Hollywood before they could catch their breath.

Did they want to seize the opportunity?

Of course, they did! They dreamed of diving into a new project, striking while the iron was hot, and riding the wave of success to a new life.

But they had no new project in hand—

What now?

Moreover, New Line and other studios remained laser-focused on a sequel to The Butterfly Effect.

Sequel, sequel, and more sequel.

Eric and Mackie were completely stumped.

The story of The Butterfly Effect was complete. Its five alternate endings wrapped up every possibility, and forcing a sequel would only ruin it.

Besides, they had zero inspiration for one.

In the chaotic uproar, Eric finally thought of Anson—

Even though they had no answers, Anson might.

From another perspective, the studios probably wouldn’t want a sequel without Anson, right?

Even if they had inspiration, they’d still need Anson’s approval.

They called Anson.

Anson, well aware of Hollywood’s craze for profit, understood the relentless pressure studios would apply—even if Eric and Mackie didn’t have a sequel, they’d keep throwing money at them until one materialized.

History had proven this true.

In the years to come, not only did The Butterfly Effect get a sequel, but it also spawned a third film. Eventually, with original scripts becoming scarcer in Hollywood, the franchise even saw a reboot.

Sequel after sequel, endlessly.

But none of that concerned Anson—he had no interest in sequels.

The reason was simple: Evan’s story was complete. Any sequel would only tarnish the film’s legacy.

Anson believed Eric and Mackie felt the same way.

So, he suggested an alternative.

Sell the sequel rights to a studio.

The studio could hire new writers, directors, and cast to create an entirely new story. This approach avoided the issue of rising salaries for returning cast members, allowing the studio to control costs and reduce risks.

Meanwhile, Eric and Mackie wouldn’t have to force themselves to create a story they didn’t believe in. Instead, they could earn money from selling the rights and focus on crafting a fresh project.

“You can tell Hollywood you’re working on something new, breaking free from The Butterfly Effect to explore different ideas,” Anson advised.

“Trust me, Hollywood eats that up.”

Sure enough, Anson was right.

Eric and Mackie sold the sequel rights to New Line Cinema.

New Line hired new writers to draft a script for a fresh take.

Shortly after, Eric and Mackie announced they were collaborating on a brand-new project, sparking widespread curiosity and discussion across Hollywood.

Everyone found their happy ending.

Including Anson.

Finally, people stopped badgering Edgar about a Butterfly Effect sequel, giving him some peace.

As for Anson?

After the premiere of The Butterfly Effect, Anson picked up his guitar again and embarked on a road trip across North America. This time, with no work interruptions, he spent a whole month leisurely traveling from the West Coast to the East Coast, savoring the land’s spirit at a 1960s pace.

When Eric and Mackie called, he was near Memphis, tracing the footsteps of Johnny Cash’s early life and exploring the underground music scene there.

Though half a century had passed, Memphis still retained its unique charm, and the dreams of its music-loving residents remained much the same.

Slowly but surely, Anson made it back to New York before Christmas, diving into the city’s snow-covered streets.

It was a cold winter.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1168: The Song of the Wanderer

Creak.

The bar’s back door opened, and a gust of icy wind swept in, carrying snowflakes that swirled wildly. The warm, cozy air inside met the chill, causing a prickly numbness to spread through fingers and toes. Hastily shutting the door, the world returned to silence.

“Good evening.”

“Hey, Anson. Good evening. The weather outside is absolutely miserable today.”

“It sure is. It was sunny this afternoon, and then by evening, the sky just seemed to collapse into darkness. Makes you wonder if there’s a giant hole up there. Who knows how long this snow will last?”

“God, I hate winter. But seeing you here makes me feel a little less alone.”

“Oh, Jim, you should know my look today was carefully curated.”

“Curated? For what? A homeless aesthetic?”

“It's called ‘effortlessly disheveled chic.’”

“And your inspiration? The pigeon lady from Home Alone 2?”

“Bingo. Correct answer. Glad to see my effort is being recognized.”

Their banter, a blend of teasing and sarcasm, livened up the atmosphere.

In front of the door stood a young man in his early twenties: Jim Colby, a bar waiter.

Sporting a bizarre, choppy haircut and exuding a rebellious edge, his face bore an unmistakable disdain for the world—a hallmark of his age.

Jim gave the man before him a once-over, then a more careful second glance, still struggling to believe his eyes.

Standing there was none other than Anson Wood.

A white T-shirt layered under a collarless white shirt and a light gray checkered one, topped with a dark gray overcoat that draped past his knees.

His short, wildly unkempt hair resembled a bird’s nest, with each strand stubbornly doing its own thing. A scruffy beard covered half his face, giving him an air of weariness and age, almost obscuring his features entirely.

Worn, dirty boots bore witness to countless miles traveled, while a black guitar case slung over his shoulder completed the weathered look.

He stood there, unembarrassed, without a trace of disguise.

And yet, Jim still doubted his own eyes, unwilling to believe his judgment.

Anson Wood?

The famous Anson, reduced to this ragged, haggard state?

“Ha.”

Jim forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“But I get it. You need to hide your real identity. If someone recognized you, this bar would be overrun in minutes.”

Anson didn’t seem convinced. “You sure about that?”

“Oh, I’m sure. But you must’ve let a few people in on the secret, right? Spread the word a little?”

Jim widened his eyes, offended. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

Before Anson could respond, a ponytailed girl passing through the kitchen chimed in, “Jim told his neighbor.”

“And I told my best friend,” she added casually.

Jim: ...

Caught red-handed, Jim could only stare at Anson, at a loss for words. Finally, he turned and shouted helplessly, “Rebecca!”

Rebecca Jones shot him a knowing grin. “If you don’t get the buffalo wings to table six soon, I might let slip a few more things.”

“Oh, and Anson, you’ve got five minutes until showtime.”

Without waiting for a response, Rebecca disappeared with a tray of plates and four beers, her brisk steps leaving no room for argument.

Anson chuckled at Jim’s guilty expression and evasive gaze.

“Don’t worry,” Anson said.

“I mean, even if word gets out, it’s not like the crowd will pack the bar.

“Either no one will believe it, or my appeal isn’t strong enough anymore.

“Or maybe folks come looking, can’t spot the real me, and leave in frustration thinking you made it all up.”

“I’m guessing Edward has been spreading the word too,” he added, referring to the bar’s owner.

“Too bad it hasn’t helped business much. I’m not sure whether to apologize on his behalf or mine.”

Jim couldn’t hold back and burst into laughter, though he quickly composed himself, clearing his throat.

“I’ve got to get back to work before Rebecca explodes. Break a leg out there tonight.”

Turning away, Jim couldn’t suppress another fit of giggles as he walked off.

Finally, the space grew quiet.

This was New York’s East Village, in downtown Manhattan.

A breeding ground for art in all its forms—painting, music, writing, performance, and dance.

In the 1960s, this very area had nurtured the seeds of folk, country, and rock music, pushing them into the mainstream.

Legends like Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash had performed in its small bars before launching into superstardom.

Though rising rents had driven many artists to Brooklyn, downtown Manhattan remained a haven for underground art.

Anson had drawn inspiration from filmmaker Woody Allen—

A devoted jazz enthusiast who had performed saxophone at a downtown bar for over a decade, under his own name, week after week.

The idea resonated with Anson.

Embarking on his own journey, he’d followed Johnny Cash’s footsteps, immersing himself in the life of a musician. But he’d always been an outsider, observing from the sidelines.

Now, he wanted to step into the role himself, to truly experience that life.

After researching Manhattan’s bar scene with Warner Records, Anson visited venues in person and pitched himself to this bar’s owner.

Performing under the name Levine Davis, Anson played a 30-minute set every night during the early slot—the warm-up act.

A week had passed, and his performances had caused barely a ripple.

Yet Anson relished this time.

If street performances felt like wandering adventures, bar gigs brought him closer to people, creating a connection between performer and audience.

At the very least, he’d made friends with the bar staff and its owner.

Life swayed between chaos and calm, and Anson found solace in grounding himself in the simple act of making music.

Now, it was time to perform.

*Chapter 1169: A Lone Lamp*

Whoosh, whoosh—the wild wind howled outside.

The world beyond was completely engulfed in darkness, shrouded in thick, swirling mist. Even the glow of streetlights and headlights couldn’t pierce the heavy veil of night.

A glance at the time: barely 5:30 p.m.

Pushing open the door to the bar, a soft glow of creamy yellow light and the rich aroma of beer greeted him, wrapping around his body like a warm embrace, allowing his muscles to unwind.

The door creaked as it swung back and forth, its sound mingling with the tumultuous noise and icy gusts from outside. The chaotic clamor faded as the door finally shut, leaving the world outside behind and enveloping the room in serene stillness.

It wasn’t dinnertime yet, so the bar wasn’t crowded.

The evening’s performances had just begun, with the heavy-hitting underground artists from Manhattan and Brooklyn yet to take the stage. The energy was still in its warm-up phase.

Scanning the room, there were only four occupied tables, leaving the space feeling particularly vast.

The patrons were lost in their own conversations, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the subtle changes happening on the stage.

The clink of glasses, the curl of cigarette smoke, and the hum of idle chatter blended with the background noise from the kitchen and the occasional sounds seeping in from outside.

Anson stepped onto the stage, guitar strapped to his back.

Familiar with the routine, he checked the microphone, the sound system, and the lighting.

He carefully brought a stool onto the stage, quietly took a seat under the spotlight, and began tuning his guitar.

Calm and focused, as if this was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His deliberate, gentle movements betrayed his love for the instrument as his fingers lightly brushed the strings.

Time seemed to slow in this small space, creating the illusion that the outside world had stopped entirely.

Inadvertently, a few patrons’ gazes drifted to the stage, their attention caught by the solitary figure. They lingered for a moment, their tumultuous thoughts inexplicably soothed by the sight.

But the spell was short-lived. A friend’s voice called them back to their conversation, and they momentarily forgot about the figure on stage.

Behind the bar, Edward Bowes wiped down the counter, pausing to glance at Anson as he tuned his guitar. A sigh escaped him.

Anson had said he was immersing himself in a role, exploring the character’s world in his own way.

Clearly, it wasn’t that simple.

Edward didn’t understand what went on in the minds of these actors.

After all, Anson already had everything—fame, fortune, the power to summon success at will. Why couldn’t he just stay a pretty face, like Adam Sandler? Coasting through comedic roles, endlessly recycling the same persona across films, raking in easy money while lounging in a mansion, leaving the critics to scream into the void.

Wouldn’t that be paradise?

But then again, Edward couldn’t entirely fault Anson.

Look at himself. While other bars caved to the trend of pop and dance music, Edward clung to the belief in the unique atmosphere of live performances.

It wasn’t about electronic beats and synthesized rhythms that left people empty after their fleeting euphoria. It was about real instruments, genuine sounds, and the connection forged between performer and audience, letting the music breathe life into the moment.

Maybe that’s just life.

People could always choose the easy way, quietly sanding down their edges and hiding their colors to blend in. Or they could take the harder path, holding onto their individuality, embracing their true selves, and facing reality head-on to seek the life they were meant to live.

That was the beauty of New York—a place where stubborn fools could still carve out a corner for themselves.

Just then, Anson looked up and caught Edward’s gaze, offering a soft smile.

Edward, startled as if stung, quickly averted his eyes, busying himself with his work to cover his embarrassment.

Anson, oblivious to Edward’s inner turmoil, lowered his head again and gently plucked the strings of his guitar.

Edward glanced back at Anson, sighed deeply, and turned to dim the surrounding lights, leaving only the spotlight above the stage.

The warm, orange-yellow light with a hint of gold and crimson bathed the stage in a caramel glow.

The exposed brick walls, simple setup, and minimal equipment faded into the background, drawing all focus to the performer.

One light. One chair. One microphone.

And one guitar.

That was all.

No opening speech, no introductions. Anson’s fingers danced lightly over the strings, releasing clear, soothing notes that resembled smooth pebbles tumbling through a babbling brook, embarking on a misty morning journey.

The music wasn’t loud, intrusive, or demanding. It blended seamlessly with the ambiance.

Anson had no intention of grabbing attention. He played quietly, content even if no one noticed or appreciated it. All he needed was a corner to share his story.

That was enough.

The melody was crisp and bright, tender and winding.

There were no lyrics; Anson simply hummed along, letting the notes resonate with his voice, infusing the melody with the softness and sensitivity of his soul. The sound flowed gently through the microphone, rippling outward.

Unexpectedly, it wasn’t a dramatic outpouring or a flamboyant display—just a simple hum. Yet it pushed the clamor of the outside world further away, leaving the bar’s warm energy to fill the empty space.

Inadvertently, someone’s gaze lingered on the stage, and their thoughts began to drift before they even realized it.

The melody felt so familiar—so achingly familiar—that it teased at their memory, though they couldn’t quite place it.

Just then, Jim arrived with a tray of beer. A curious patron stopped him to ask.

Jim replied, “Oh, that’s ‘500 Miles’ by The Journeymen.”

Recognition dawned. Of course!

In the history of music, The Beatles’ Yesterday is hailed as the most covered song, with 500 Miles by The Journeymen a close second.

Written in 1961 and featured on The Journeymen’s self-titled album, the song has been covered countless times worldwide for over forty years.

In 2013, the film Inside Llewyn Davis revived the song, awakening memories and cementing it as one of the most beloved tracks from its soundtrack.

The familiar melody triggered a flood of memories—not the song itself, but the people, stories, and moments associated with it.

Though the tune lacked words, its hum resonated deeply, stirring reflections hidden in the recesses of the mind.

Someone sat silently, their focus slipping as the world blurred around them.

And still, the voice on stage murmured softly,

“Not knowing, I’ve already left home, five hundred miles away.

Far from home, oh, far from home...”

Chapter 1170: Time Stands Still

"...I'm in rags, I'm penniless. God, I can't go home like this. Like this, like this, like this, like this."

"God, I can't go home like this."

Serenity, tranquility, and a gentle sadness flow through the melody, melancholy yet not bitter. Like a letter from across the sea battered by trials of fate, it quietly hides fragility and helplessness, arming itself instead with resilience and courage. Pulling up the collar of a coat, it trudges forward alone in the icy chill of winter.

"If you miss the train I’m on, you’ll know that I’m gone. You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles..."

Before realizing it, a soft hum escapes from the depths of the throat—

A hundred miles. A hundred miles.

The low murmur surges gently in the bar, resonating as if from the depths of the soul.

Unconsciously, the gaze and attention drift toward that solitary lamp.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about it, yet it somehow draws the heart. Amidst the persistent din and clamor in the air, one’s emotions gradually sink into the piercing chill and desolation of winter through the melody.

When the performance ends, hearts, stirred and restless, seek refuge in distraction. Guests at the bar glance back at their friends, raising their voices to resume conversation, masking their momentary vulnerability.

As if nothing had happened.

Yet, the figure on the stage remains unfazed, wholly immersed in their world.

Slender yet powerful fingers dance lightly over the strings of the guitar.

The melody flows like a stream.

The world, miraculously, falls silent. A breeze carries over vast blue seas, journeying far and wide to embrace a lush green forest ahead. Waves crashing against rocks harmonize with rustling treetops, while pale golden sunlight pierces the cloudless blue sky, falling onto fingertips, spinning in delicate dances.

Then, the world holds nothing but the self, a guitar, and a voice.

"I don’t ask for much..."

Clear, pure, and unblemished, the voice captures attention in an instant.

The words vanish in the throat, and instinctively, the gaze turns to the stage. A quiet collapse occurs deep within the heart, shedding armor and masks, leaving the softest and most fragile parts unexpectedly exposed.

"...just to hear you knock on my door. If I could see you once more, I’d face death with no regrets." (Note 1)

Gentle and faint, with neither dramatic highs nor lows, it’s like lying on a lawn on a summer afternoon, gazing at the clear sky where clouds drift lazily. The quiet is soothing and peaceful, but when truly still, one senses the grandeur of time slipping through one’s fingers.

A single guitar. Simple chords.

A single voice. True emotion.

That is more than enough.

"When you say your final goodbye, a corner of my heart quietly withers; confined to my bed, tears streaming down my face, alone without you by my side."

Between nonchalance and the lightness of a breeze, there’s a subtle reveal of scars weathered through trials, and the staggering steps of one who’s endured.

There’s no bitterness, no resentment—only a faint smile curving upward, recalling the happiness and joy that once soared between the strings.

The heart trembles.

"But if you ever truly loved me, why did you leave?"

"Take me away, take me away..."

"All I want, all I need is to find someone, someone... just like you."

Sadness lingers briefly, only to be swept away the next moment as fingertips begin to fly over the strings, melodies bursting forth. The joy and delight surge, radiating from the clear voice that hums:

"Just like you..."

Without realizing it, the heart races.

In surprise and awe, one looks up, focusing on the figure bathed in soft, golden light. The man’s mouth, hidden beneath a rugged beard, curls into a subtle, radiant smile.

It’s clearly a quiet, sorrowful song, but now, turbulent waves surge, filling hearts with boundless emotion.

Closing their eyes, they imagine themselves running across an endless desert, arms spread wide to embrace the wild winds. Running and running, the wasteland transforms into forests, shedding gray and brown hues, diving into an ocean of green. Every pore opens, taking deep, liberating breaths.

It’s freedom. It’s joy. It’s bliss.

Laughter blooms without restraint.

Yet why do the eyes brim with tears?

"Look, you made me better, a version of myself even I don’t recognize. You took my soul, cleaned it, and turned our love into a cinematic memory."

Fingers soar; the melody races.

The rhythm hidden beneath the song quickens, bubbling with exhilaration. The emotions conveyed in the words shed their shadows—not grief, not pain, not struggle—but the strength to face oneself after the passing of time.

Most importantly, it’s about growth, transformation, and breaking free from the cocoon to become a butterfly.

"But if you ever truly loved me, why did you leave?"

"Take me away, take me away..."

"All I want, all I need is to find someone, someone... just like you."

In the small, bustling bar, every gaze locks on the figure on stage. Even Jim and Rebecca pause, tilting their heads as they watch quietly, their hearts wandering freely in the warmth of the moment.

Then, the man’s smile grows.

Breaking free of chains, escaping confinement, shedding burdens—

He bursts into a sprint.

Plucking the strings faster and faster, fingers dance with dazzling speed, their movement a blur.

The once-gentle stream now joins a roaring river, rushing westward to meet the vast ocean, where waves crash and roar.

Hearts race faster, faster, hurtling forward at full speed.

They’re back in their youth, where worries, pain, and struggles were relentless. Adolescence felt endless and dark, with no end in sight. Desperately seeking rescue but finding no solace, they clung tightly to themselves, weeping in the shadows.

Step by step.

Day by day.

Holding on, until one day, they could no longer endure. So, they began to run.

Directionless, purposeless, like children, they ran freely and wildly, breaking free of restraints and chains, embracing freedom with courage.

As they ran, their hearts began to beat again.

As they ran, smiles crept onto their faces.

As they ran, dawn began tearing through the darkness.

The surging melody, strumming strings, and pounding rhythm merge into a mighty tide, roaring in their ears.

Hearts feel as though they’ll burst.

Underneath that single lonely lamp, the man sings out—

“Oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh… oh… oh oh oh… oh oh oh oh…”

Bit by bit, the melody climbs higher.