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*Chapter 846: Road Trip*

On August 31st, the band embarked on their journey with no external help. The four of them, armed only with their instruments, hit the road, embracing the spirit of a truly independent band road trip to kick off their album promotion tour.

Warner Records was completely taken aback: "Is this even possible?"

Of course, bands often did this in the past. In an era when radio and TV promotion resources were highly coveted, singers, especially bands, would promote themselves from city to city, starting with small pubs and theaters, hoping to make it onto radio playlists and eventually gain national recognition.

It was a simpler and more sincere time.

The saying went, "Good wine needs no bush."

But now, times have changed, and the world is different. Nothing is the same anymore.

Could the band really manage to pull this off with such minimal support? Even the notoriously heartless Warner Records felt guilty, wondering if they should give the band a larger share of the profits.

Nevertheless, the band set out on their journey.

In response, Warner Records provided generous reimbursement for the band’s accommodations and meals, knowing that, compared to the huge promotional budget, even the best food and lodging would be just a drop in the bucket.

At the same time, Warner Records focused more of their budget on distribution.

In short, not only did they penetrate major chain record stores and supermarkets, but they also made sure the album was available in bookstores, independent record shops, and vinyl stores—everywhere possible—to ensure the album would reach the audience.

This way, when people looked for the album, they wouldn’t miss it.

While Warner Records adjusted its promotional strategy to match the band’s approach, the band embarked on their European tour—just as planned.

No one knew the August 31st band, and no one recognized Anson. Even if they saw him, it was difficult to associate him with a movie star. They simply thought of the band as another ordinary underground group.

The start of the tour was undeniably tough, bringing back memories for Lily and the others.

Sometimes, they’d perform for a full thirty minutes without anyone stopping to listen, even when they played their hit song "Wake Me Up." But the population density of European cities couldn’t compare to New York’s, so even a unique performance couldn’t quickly gather a crowd.

Other times, they’d perform all afternoon, sweating and parched, with just a few scattered coins in Miles’ cello case. They were just like a truly unknown underground band, ignored, with no one willing to buy their displayed albums.

It was undoubtedly grueling, even terrifying.

Especially after experiencing the fame and praise from their "Tonight Show" appearance, the sharp contrast of returning to obscurity could drive anyone mad.

Lily and the others, struggling with memories of their previous failures, couldn’t help but feel discouraged. But unexpectedly, it was Anson who stepped up to console them.

In theory, Anson was the one who had truly experienced the highs of stardom, basking in the spotlight, and the drastic fall from fame to anonymity should’ve been the hardest on him.

Yet, Anson wasn’t fazed.

Not only did he adapt quickly, but he was also the first to embrace the life of an unknown musician.

"Hey, everything started with the music, and now we’re back to the music. We should enjoy this journey. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"Look."

"We don’t have to worry about rent, about where dinner will come from, or whether the heating will get shut off in winter, leaving us freezing."

"All we need to think about now is the music. It’s all about the music. Treat this as a once-in-a-lifetime road trip, the last bit of youthful recklessness and indulgence. Enjoy it, and leave behind some memories."

"What do you think?"

Anson was right. This rare opportunity allowed them to fully immerse in the music and express themselves—something they had once desperately longed for. But they had become greedy, blinded by their growing hunger for success, and forgotten the original reason they started.

They needed to enjoy this, to fully immerse themselves.

Slowly, the journey began to change. There were surprises and touching moments, adventures and excitement. There wasn’t even enough time for them to revel in the joy, let alone wallow in sadness.

In Oslo, they couldn’t secure a permit for street performances, which was disappointing. But instead, the band performed a bonfire set on the balcony of a youth hostel, singing along with young people from all over the world.

In Helsinki, their street performance didn’t attract much attention, but they unexpectedly caught the eye of a guitarist from a rock band. He invited them to be guest performers at a bar gig that night, giving them a taste of wild Nordic heavy metal.

In Berlin, the band had their most successful street performance of the European tour at Alexanderplatz. Their performance of "Wake Me Up" ignited the crowd, gathering over 500 people for a collective celebration. For three consecutive days, their shows drew large crowds.

Altogether, the band managed to sell over 1,300 albums during those performances.

In Budapest, for the first time, someone recognized Anson at first sight. While people in other cities had occasionally called out Anson’s name, this was the first time someone had immediately recognized him, giving the band a taste of Anson’s "movie star" fame.

The band didn’t just stick to big cities; they also visited smaller, less populated towns, performing on the streets while continuing their road trip. Inspired by Anson, the others rediscovered their youthful energy, embracing life with full force.

There were highs and lows, crowds and solitude. Sometimes, they were surrounded by applause, and sometimes they went unnoticed. But through all the travel and performances, the meaning of the journey and of their youth became clearer.

It was about the people, the moments, and the genuine happiness they experienced firsthand.

Maybe it was a girl telling them that their performance saved her terrible day. Maybe it was an elderly man, beaming with joy as he enjoyed their show. Or maybe it was a shy boy who finally mustered the courage to confess to the girl he liked. Or a toddler dancing along to their music.

These seemingly small but deeply meaningful moments made their journey and youth worthwhile, breathing new life into their music and dreams.

Life is hard; but if you slow down and focus on yourself, you can find a little color in the daily grind.

And so.

Street performances became a source of enjoyment.

As Anson had said, they no longer had to worry about making ends meet or going hungry for their dreams. Now that they could indulge, they needed to make the most of it.

Then, the August 31st band arrived in Paris.

A city full of magic.

Another new day, another fresh start. No matter what happened, the day would be worth looking forward to—that’s the essence of adventure.

*Chapter 847: Keeping a Calm Mindset*

"Good morning... Wow, what’s that smell?"

As soon as Connor pushed the door open, his nose twitched. The rich, hearty aroma hit him, making his stomach rumble. Before his eyes could spot the source, his mouth had already started to water, forcing him to swallow a bit of saliva. The next second, he saw a few scattered pieces of bread on the table.

Freshly baked bread, with a lovely caramelized golden-brown sheen. It looked simple, yet it completely captured his attention, making it hard to look away.

Lily was seated at the dining table and greeted Connor with a wide smile.

“The marathon runner is finally back! Come on, breakfast is ready.”

"Now I finally understand why the French are so obsessed with bread. It really is different."

Connor quickly scanned the table, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "It definitely looks different, at least compared to German or Dutch bread."

Lily laughed, "Actually, I really like Munich’s pretzels; but yeah, the bread here in Paris is something else. Look at Miles — he wasn’t even planning on eating breakfast."

Next to them, Miles held up a torn piece of bread, gesturing to Connor before popping it into his mouth, savoring the flavor with a thoughtful look.

Curious, Connor sat down and quickly glanced around. "Where’s the jam?"

Lily shook her head. "Anson said you don’t need jam for this bread. Putting jam on everything is such an American thing."

Connor made a face. "I’ve heard the French don’t like Americans, especially here in Paris. Now I can really feel it."

Even as he grumbled, Connor carefully tore off a small piece of bread and chewed it. The mild wheat flavor spread through his mouth, aromatic but not sweet, with just enough chewiness without being sticky. The baked, fermented fragrance filled his senses, and he couldn’t help but feel cheerful.

Surprised!

Connor looked at Lily in astonishment.

Lily shrugged gently. "Told you."

Connor was still shocked. "Where did you buy this?"

Just then, Anson emerged from the bathroom, having just finished his shower. "The bakery at the corner of the street, right under our apartment."

"There’s a bakery there?" Connor had passed by while running but hadn’t even noticed it.

Anson was towel-drying his hair. "Yep, it’s a small, unassuming shop. They bake bread four times a day, and every time there’s a line. Once the bread’s gone, the crowd disperses."

Connor took another bite of the bread. "I must’ve missed the rush on my way back. No wonder it was so quiet."

Lily chimed in, "Anson said Parisians believe the best bread comes from small local bakeries. Almost no one goes to chain stores here. Actually, do they even have big chain bakeries in Paris?"

Anson shrugged. "Probably, but they’re more for tourists."

Connor’s mouth hung open slightly. "Now I get it — that’s how they can tell I’m a tourist right away. The trap was set right there."

Miles, however, glanced at Anson. "You’re not planning to go out dressed like that, are you?"

Anson looked down at himself. "What’s wrong with this?"

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans.

That was it. Simple, ordinary, nothing special. He could easily blend into the street unnoticed.

Connor glanced at Anson. "That’s why no one recognizes him."

Anson, unfazed, replied, "If people need designer labels to recognize me, it’s better they don’t. No need to maintain a Hollywood image."

Lily didn’t seem surprised. "He’s been like that the whole European tour, hasn’t he?"

Understated and simple, as the phrase suggests, their road trip really was a road trip. Anson had completely shed his superstar aura, eating and traveling with the band like a bunch of college kids on a youth tour.

Not just strangers; even Lily and the others found it hard to get used to.

The last time they worked on an album together, "Spider-Man" had broken multiple records, and Anson had become a household name almost overnight, soaring to a level they couldn’t even reach.

Now, on the album promotion tour, the influence of "Catch Me If You Can" was still spreading, and Anson was on track to becoming Hollywood’s next major star.

Each time they met him, their perspective was refreshed.

Yet, interestingly, Anson was still the same Anson, unchanged. It wasn’t an act or a façade; spending time with him in everyday life showed them his genuine, down-to-earth nature.

Again and again, their views shifted. And eventually, Lily and the others got used to it.

But what was up with Miles?

Miles let out a sigh and explained, "But this is Paris."

Anson responded, "And?"

Miles struggled to explain Paris’s uniqueness. This city wasn’t just a romantic capital but also a hub of art—music, film, theater, literature. It was a place where artists found kindred spirits.

Maybe the band would find their breakthrough here. Perhaps this city would finally appreciate the band’s uniqueness. After all, they used classical instruments, which set them apart.

Before setting off on their journey, they’d all hoped to find someone who truly understood their music in one of these European cities. Someone who’d realize they were at the crossroads of innovation in the music industry, that their sound was a treasure for this era—waiting to be discovered.

And then, the band would blow up, like their appearance on "The Tonight Show."

But reality was harsh, even cold and brutal.

A bucket of cold water had doused their dreams repeatedly, over and over.

With Anson’s encouragement, the band picked themselves up and continued onward. But deep down, their desires still simmered.

Maybe the next city would be the one?

Like the film Roman Holiday, these European cities always seemed to hold the promise of miracles.

Or perhaps... it would be Paris?

Look at Miles—he was all dressed up today, yet Anson was still in his simple t-shirt and jeans. Even the usually composed Miles couldn’t help but exclaim.

Miles stared at Anson. "I mean, it’s Paris."

Anson shrugged. "If we didn’t get off at the wrong stop, then yes, this is Paris. Not Amsterdam."

Miles: …

Connor burst into hearty laughter. "Miles, stay calm, remember? A calm mindset. Our attitude directly affects the tone of our music. We have to stay grounded, or the music will lose its essence."

Anson patted Connor’s shoulder and casually picked up a croissant, taking a bite. "We all know that’s true, but life isn’t always that simple. So, let’s just go with the flow."

"Miles can get dressed up, and you can still go onstage looking like a hobo."

Connor nodded earnestly at first, but Anson’s last line made him choke, just as he was about to protest, only to have a piece of bread get stuck in his throat.

Cough, cough. "Anson... cough, cough..."

Anson laughed heartily. "Alright, time to get ready. We’ve got a show to play tonight."

Laughter echoed through the apartment, lifting everyone’s spirits.

*Chapter 848: A Kindred Spirit*

"September arrives and swiftly departs; innocence can't last forever; when September ends, please wake me."

The melody echoed through the long and empty subway passage, lingering in the air. Commuters passed by in a rush, some briefly pausing to glance at the band, quietly appreciating the music for a moment, then leaving a few bills or coins in the cello case before hurrying away.

At its peak, no more than five people stopped to listen.

Even Paris, with all its romance and charm, couldn’t slow down during a busy workday.

The narrow subway corridor felt like a time tunnel, as if time itself flowed through it.

In a daze, it became hard to remember what day it was, as the passage of time seemed to blur.

The band finished their performance, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. They exchanged glances, their faces flushed, having poured every ounce of energy into the performance. It didn’t matter if they were just playing for themselves—there was a sense of satisfaction.

This tiny space was their world.

As they exchanged looks, they were considering whether it was time to call it a day.

But then, a figure in a loose white shirt and black skirt paused in front of them, hesitated slightly, and surveyed the band members. She seemed to realize a beat too late and sighed softly.

"Oh."

The woman seemed a bit surprised.

"I just heard your music in the tunnel. I like it."

She shrugged lightly, rummaged through her canvas bag for a moment, pulled out her wallet, and found a banknote, indicating it politely before placing it in the cello case.

Among the scattered coins and a few freshly used euros, her large franc bill stood out.

The woman spoke in French. The band members, confused, didn’t fully understand what was happening and cast questioning looks at their lead singer, seeking help.

But at that moment?

The woman’s gesture and kind smile needed no further explanation. The meaning was clear, and their own smiles spread.

The lead singer, holding his guitar, stood at the front, dressed simply in a T-shirt and jeans. He was drenched in sweat but radiated youthful energy. He turned to his bandmates.

"Thousands of followers are too few, but one true friend is enough."

"We’ve finally found someone who genuinely appreciates our music. What do you say we play one more song for her?"

They were exhausted, drained, having already performed two hours in the morning and another three in the afternoon with few listeners. The long performances had worn them out, and their spirits were flagging.

But now, after waiting so long, they had found a kindred spirit—

Adrenaline surged through their veins, a mysterious burst of energy ignited. The young musicians exchanged looks, their smiles blooming. No words were needed—they understood each other perfectly.

"Encore?"

"Encore!"

That single word was enough. The street version of "Wake Me Up When September Ends" poured forth like a rushing river, resonating through the subway tunnel.

It was just one audience member.

But it was still a concert.

The woman’s face lit up with surprise and wonder, but she stayed, standing still, fully immersed in the performance. Her expression brightened more and more, unable to hide her joy.

She couldn’t help but start dancing, leaping and celebrating along with the music.

Not until the performance ended.

"Wow."

"Wow!"

The woman raised her arms high, shouting joyfully. In just four minutes, she had experienced something truly special.

She stepped forward and high-fived each band member in celebration.

"So, do you have an album?" she asked happily.

Still speaking in French.

The lead singer, also speaking in French, replied, "August 31st."

He picked up an album from the cello case to show her.

The woman’s face beamed with delight. She took the album and pulled another franc from her wallet, placing it in the cello case. She could hardly contain her happiness.

Holding the album, the woman finally walked away, but after only a few steps, she couldn’t resist spinning in place, her skirt twirling with her joy.

And that was all—

"That woman, the last one, she really loved our music."

"Absolutely! Did you see the look in her eyes? She was completely absorbed. I knew we’d find someone in Paris who understood us. She could sense our passion and appreciate our efforts."

"God, that’s the kind of audience we need."

Miles was overflowing with joy, excited beyond measure. It was rare to see him so animated, and his unrestrained excitement was palpable.

After finishing their first day of street performances in Paris, the band carried their instruments out of the subway station. They didn’t go far, sitting down for a brief rest at a nearby café.

At this time, night hadn’t fully fallen in Paris, and it wasn’t quite time for dinner, but that didn’t stop the band members from ordering some wine along with tiramisu and Black Forest cake to quickly replenish their energy.

Their conversation kept circling back to the day’s performance.

What was surprising was that Miles seemed the most excited and energized.

Noticing the looks the others were giving him, Miles realized he’d gotten a bit carried away and grew a little embarrassed.

"What’s up?"

Connor chuckled, "To anyone who didn’t know better, they’d think we just had a sold-out concert at Wembley Stadium, when really, it was just one listener."

Connor couldn’t help himself and slapped his knee in laughter.

But Miles didn’t feel awkward or shy. Instead, he looked directly at Connor with confidence. "Yes, just one, but an incredibly precious one."

"It’s like Anson said."

"I’ve been waiting for someone who truly appreciates, understands, and loves our music. Someone who can appreciate the clash of classical instruments and pop music, someone who sees that music shouldn’t be bound by prejudice, and who understands that music is a soul connection, transcending language and culture."

"Today, she appeared."

"That’s more precious, more fulfilling than performing in front of ten thousand people at Wembley."

He paused, realizing he might have sounded too extreme.

"Okay, maybe just as fulfilling and precious."

The others laughed heartily, including Anson, Connor, and Lily.

Miles, now a bit sheepish, grabbed his wine and took a big gulp, only to choke from drinking too quickly, leading to a fit of coughing.

This made the others laugh even harder.

Anson quickly handed his water bottle to Miles, who gulped down half of it to regain his composure.

Finally catching his breath, Miles smiled. "I get it now—why Anson wanted us to return to street performances."

*Chapter 849: Returning to the Beginning*

"At the time, everything happened too fast."

"We barely had time to process it all, and then 'The Tonight Show' catapulted us to unbelievable heights—record deals, albums, magazine interviews all rushed in. Overnight, it felt like a dream."

"Honestly, after 'Catch Me If You Can' became a box office hit, I had greedier thoughts."

"Maybe we could go even further, get on the Grammy stage, start a world tour, and completely change the course of our lives."

"Even though nothing had happened yet, my head was already in the clouds."

"I can't speak for Lily and Connor—I don’t know how they felt—but that’s how I was, filled with excitement about our album release, thinking we could ride Anson’s wave of popularity and easily succeed."

"But that’s not how it’s supposed to work, right?"

Miles looked at Anson—

It was hard to put into words. Admitting his own selfishness wasn’t easy.

He needed courage.

But Miles always believed that facing your shortcomings and mistakes was the only way to rediscover yourself, the only path to true happiness.

"It’s not that I don’t want success—God knows how badly I crave it."

"But success shouldn’t stray off course, and it definitely shouldn’t forget the starting point of it all."

"Music."

"The reason we stuck it out for so long, failing time and time again but still trying over and over, stubborn fools that we are, is because we love music and believe it brings happiness."

"Maybe it heals wounds, maybe it’s a refuge for a damaged soul, maybe it resonates with joy and happiness, or maybe it offers a brief escape from a stressful life."

"That’s why Anson wants us to return to the streets, to rediscover the passion and sincerity that kept us foolishly going."

"Because a performer’s mindset and state of mind directly affect the color of their performance."

"Right?"

The truth was, Anson had already explained this to them. It was why the band had revived itself and returned to street performances. But it wasn’t until now that Miles could fully admit and confront the inner demons that had been hiding inside him.

Everyone’s gaze now fell on Anson—

Lily and Connor’s eyes revealed traces of hesitation, shadows they didn’t even want to face themselves flickering there.

However—

Anson neither confirmed nor denied anything. He simply smiled.

"Don’t you think street performances are something special?"

"I know a concert for 100,000 people—that’s on a whole different level, a totally different feeling. I’ve never experienced that, so I can’t imagine what a crowd that size would be like, but I bet it would humble you, make you feel small."

"But street performances are always special. The performer and the audience are so close. I can see their eyes, they can see my expressions, and the music becomes a bridge—a form of communication, a shared resonance. It breathes life into the music and lets us feel, in the most real way, that we’re still alive."

"I like it."

It was a simple and pure feeling.

No fancy words, no elaborate phrasing, yet it effortlessly hit home, a warm current quietly rippling through the chest.

Like a mirror reflecting oneself.

Lily, Connor, and even Miles unconsciously drifted, exploring that feeling in the void.

Anson, as if unaware of this, asked with a bright smile, "So, what’s the best spot for a street performance?"

Lily cleared her throat. "It depends on the crowd. The best spot is wherever people are, where there’s foot traffic, where people come and go."

Anson, "Washington Square?"

Lily shook her head. "No, no, no. Though it’s popular, the crowd doesn’t really flow. Street corners, no need for landmarks or anything fancy, just ordinary street corners. For us, the streets are like our office, maybe even more than a 9-to-5 job."

As she spoke, a smile crept onto Lily’s face, as memories of past performances came flooding back.

"For Miles, street performances were pure torture. He had always performed in concert halls and had never brought his cello to the streets."

Miles shook his head seriously. "Not just back then. It’s still hard now."

Laughter broke out.

Miles said, "The noise, the chaos, there’s no way to find peace. The whole world feels like a high-speed spin cycle. I had never performed in such an environment. The worst part? Those roaring engines and subway sounds—they probably drowned out our entire performance."

"Oh, God."

Just imagining it, you could feel how hard it was.

After all, classical instruments and street performances were worlds apart—

Imagine combining ballet and hip-hop, like in the movie Step Up, which didn’t come out until 2006.

And yet Miles and his crew were hitting the streets as early as 2001. It was far harder than anyone could have imagined.

"But you still went out there, and you stuck it out," Anson said. For that alone, they deserved applause.

Miles looked up, exchanging glances with Lily and Connor, smiles appearing in their eyes and at the corners of their mouths.

Lily spread her hands, "Jesus Christ, how did we even stick it out?"

Connor said seriously, "Stupidity. Sheer stupidity got us through it."

Anson nodded, "In a way, innocence really is foolishness because society doesn’t reward innocence."

They all burst into laughter.

"But if everyone were cunning and clever, some people would still need to stay innocent to give dreams the soil to take root and grow," Anson added.

Their eyes met, blood pulsing with excitement.

Anson leaned forward slightly, looking at the three of them. "I know we just finished a full day of performing, and we’re all exhausted, but I have an idea."

All three of them turned to Anson.

Connor couldn’t help himself. "What idea?"

Anson smiled. "How about we do a street performance right here? I mean, not a formal one—we don’t have the permits to perform here, but maybe we could ask the café owner if we could play a bit of guitar?"

Miles, "Just guitar?"

Anson shrugged, a smile spreading across his face, giving nothing away.

Here? On the street? A random spot?

The rush hour crowd seemed to be slowly gathering from the subway entrance, but this wasn’t a typical performance space. It was cramped, with limited sightlines. Would they really perform here?

Lily rubbed her hands together. "So, what are we playing?"

Anson glanced around. "This place isn’t suited for anything too intense. We don’t have time to set up all our instruments. Let’s keep it simple."

They exchanged looks, a giddy excitement building between them.

After getting the café owner's approval, Anson pulled out a guitar—

Just one guitar.

He sat down in an outdoor chair in front of the café, looking at Lily, Connor, and Miles.

Slap.

Anson’s hand landed on the guitar’s body, producing a crisp sound.

*Chapter 850: Paris Dusk*

Snap.

A gentle slap, as Anson’s hand lands on the guitar’s soundboard, creating a crisp sound. His lips curl into a smile as his eyes sweep around, filled with warmth.

His gaze meets Lily’s, Connor’s, and Miles’s, and an unspoken understanding flows naturally between them.

In a fleeting moment, he’s transported back to that afternoon performing "Wake Me Up" on a New York street.

Standing on a foreign street, unknown to anyone, everything feels like a return to the beginning. Yet, his mindset has quietly shifted, but he once again feels that spark of excitement.

With a slow, steady four-beat rhythm as the intro, Anson waits for the band members to get ready.

Then.

Anson’s hands return to the guitar, pressing down on the strings, as his slender right-hand fingers begin to play, starting with the simplest basic chords.

The sound is clear and bright, like a golden ray of sunshine breaking through the French sycamore trees after a summer afternoon thunderstorm, gently coloring the sky orange as dusk begins to settle. After a long day, people stop at street corners, slightly tilting their heads upward, letting the sun’s warmth kiss their cheeks.

Closing their eyes, they breathe in the faint, earthy scent of damp soil, muscles slowly loosening as they savor a brief moment of fresh air between the confinements of office buildings and apartments.

Everything is just so simple.

Lily watches Anson playing intently, nodding lightly to the rhythm. She finds her entrance, gently tapping her hands on the table—

The café table isn’t wooden, but a small metal one.

The clash of her palms against the table creates a clanking sound, a little awkward, straddling the line between art and circus.

Lily can’t help but smile—it's not laughter from losing focus, but pure joy. She’s still listening carefully, searching for the gaps in the sound of Anson’s guitar strings, adjusting the strength of her taps, trying to find resonance within the rhythm.

Clang, clang.

Even though Lily is controlling her force, the sound is still slightly off.

At this moment, Connor joins in—

His hands tapping on the soundboard of Anson’s guitar.

Pa-pa, pa-pa.

The crisp yet solid beat seamlessly blends into the music, and the slightly awkward sound of the metal table now feels oddly charming. The resonance between the beats and the chords brings a touch of exotic romance, making the melody even more captivating.

Lily looks up at Connor, their eyes meeting. The brightness in their eyes collides, and it’s clear that both of them are in a state of pure enjoyment. Their fingertips and arms move more lightly and crisply, carried by the music.

On the side, Miles waits patiently. When the three musicians’ performances merge into a harmony, he picks up a small toothpick box from the table, shaking it gently like a maraca. Occasionally, he lets the small metal box fall onto the table, creating a shifting rhythm between different textures of sound, subtly altering the melody’s tone.

Meanwhile, between beats, Miles claps his left hand against his right, much like a Flamenco dancer, using his body to create the simplest sound, weaving it into the performance. The interplay of his rhythms with Connor and Lily’s beats adds layers and colors to the music.

This scene, so simple, so pure, yet so beautiful.

One guitar is all it takes to bring the music back to its most natural, primitive state—

Sound. Melody.

The sounds of nature, colliding to form the most beautiful music.

Each person’s face bears a smile, each person radiates joy. The performance is still a performance, but it’s fully relaxed, making it a natural part of life as they immerse themselves in it.

Then, the flow of blood, the beating of the heart, the curling of lips, all become part of the music, truly feeling the warmth of life.

Everything is just so simple.

And yet, in its simplicity, it feels like magic.

It captures the ears, the eyes, drawing attention as people seek that pure melody amid the noise and bustle.

It starts with the café’s patrons, one by one turning their heads toward the four young musicians sitting outside. There’s no grand stage, no professional instruments, just a group of music lovers gathering on an early summer afternoon to play.

This scene might seem strange or even pretentious in other cities, but in Paris?

It’s as normal as can be.

The murmurs and whispers fill the café for a moment, but soon quiet down, as the patrons begin to watch, their eyes filled with curiosity and interest.

But Anson and the others don’t pay attention to the gazes around them; they’re fully immersed in their music. Before the singing even begins, their spirits are already soaring, and the day’s fatigue quietly dissolves in the music they love.

“Ho.”

“Hey.”

Anson begins.

Unhurried, steady, syllables colliding with the rhythm, like a child just learning music, starting from the basics.

Usually, simplicity suggests something rough and thin, whether it’s dance, music, novels, or films. But when true mastery is reached, simplicity turns into something pure and beautiful—

Simplicity is often the hardest thing.

This is exactly what’s happening now.

“Ho. Hey.”

Two syllables, one guitar, that’s all it is. Yet, in Anson’s performance, there’s a strange power. The heart beats in sync with the rhythm and the beats, quietly becoming part of the melody. Before realizing it, the soul is already immersed.

After eight beats, Lily, Connor, and Miles join in with Anson, all four calling out together.

They’re not singing, just calling out.

“Ho. Hey.”

Their voices meld into one, growing stronger, as that deep joy and excitement from the soul is carried through their voices, soaring between the melodies. It makes the listener’s heart stir, wanting to join in and shout along.

But will they?

The café patrons seem a bit reserved, exchanging glances, but in the end, no one speaks up; instead, some find a quieter way to join. They lightly tap their left hand against their right arm, participating politely without being too loud.

It’s an experience.

When you become part of the performance, the café transforms into a grand stage, and every patron becomes part of the show.

The "performance"—if it can be called that—isn’t loud or grand. It’s more like a natural instinct, awakening some dormant joy and happiness deep within, spreading through the air and becoming an accompaniment. In this energy, Anson finally starts to sing.

“I’m trying to do what’s right, I’ve been living a lonely life…”