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 ets Lily's, Connor's, and Miles's, and an unspoken understanding flows naturally between them.
In a fleeting mont, he's transported back to that afternoon performing "Wake 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 excitent.
With a slow, steady four-beat rhythm as the intro, Anson waits for the band mbers 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 sumr 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 mont of fresh air between the confinents of office buildings and apartnts.
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 tal 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 mont, 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 tal table now feels oddly charming. The resonance between the beats and the chords brings a touch of exotic romance, making the lody even more captivating.
Lily looks up at Connor, their eyes eting. The brightness in their eyes collides, and it's clear that both of them are in a state of pure enjoynt. Their fingertips and arms move more lightly and crisply, carried by the music.
On the side, Miles waits patiently. When the three musicians' performances rge into a harmony, he picks up a small toothpick box from the table, shaking it gently like a maraca. Occasionally, he lets the small tal box fall onto the table, creating a shifting rhythm between different textures of sound, subtly altering the lody's tone.
anwhile, between beats, Miles claps his left hand against his right, much like a Flanco 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. lody.
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 imrse themselves in it.
Then, the flow of blood, the beating of the heart, the curling of lips, all beco 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 lody 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 instrunts, just a group of music lovers gathering on an early sumr 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 mont, 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 imrsed 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 sothing rough and thin, whether it's dance, music, novels, or films. But when true mastery is reached, simplicity turns into sothing 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 lody. Before realizing it, the soul is already imrsed.
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 ld into one, growing stronger, as that deep joy and excitent from the soul is carried through their voices, soaring between the lodies. 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, so 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 beco part of the performance, the café transforms into a grand stage, and every patron becos 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 so dormant joy and happiness deep within, spreading through the air and becoming an accompanint. In this energy, Anson finally starts to sing.
"I'm trying to do what's right, I've been living a lonely life…"
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