Roar! Hey! Roar! Hey!
Once, and then again.
Cheering, laughing, dancing, running.
Youth is burning brightly.
Even though the lody is filled with nostalgia, and the song carries sorrow, they still bloom wildly, seizing the mont, grabbing hold of the present, and fully enjoying every second.
Unconsciously, Camilla's heart swelled with excitent, her blood boiling.
She had an urge—a strong desire to join in, to sing and dance alongside them. But the last thread of adult rationality pulled the reins, stopping her from letting loose.
She still knew to read the room, to gauge the situation.
Looking around, Camilla was stunned—
The place was packed, teeming with people.
Layer upon layer, crowds stretched far beyond what she could see. Before she even realized it, she had been completely surrounded.
When did this happen?
A beat too slow, Camilla finally realized that it was rush hour, and people pouring out of the subway station had seemingly stopped in their tracks, one after another.
At this mont, the crowd wasn't beyond imagination—about 200 people, maybe even less. Yet they completely blocked off the small corner of the street. What was truly surprising was that the noise here was drawing in even more people. Step by step, more and more were gathering.
One layer, then another, expanding outward.
The most absurd, funniest part? The performance had no speakers, no microphones—just raw, acoustic sound.
The band wasn't like the Three Tenors, who didn't need microphones to fill a whole theater, so the people at the back couldn't hear the music properly. At best, they could only catch a bit of the rhythm and lody. But that didn't stop the growing crowd.
This was rare.
Because Paris is a "cold" city—rarely do people stop to watch a spectacle. Everyone has their own life and refuses to pause for soone else.
Yet, here it was.
Camilla was filled with amazent.
But the band didn't care at all, lost in their own world, celebrating.
Roar! Hey!
The guitar in Anson's arms gradually climbed in lody, sotis rapid, sotis joyful. Notes soared into the sky, blending with the blazing orange sunset.
Unfortunately, it felt a bit thin—
Just a single acoustic guitar in the rush of a bustling crowd was easily drowned out. If the audience grew even a little larger, the guitar's lody might not carry beyond the inner circle, leaving those on the outskirts with nothing but silence.
"Miles!"
Anson noticed too and called out.
Miles, who had been watching Lily and Connor with hesitation, looked a bit downcast. But when he heard Anson's call, he turned.
"Cello. The cello!"
Anson kept reminding him.
Everything was spontaneous, so the band mbers lacked so coordination. Luckily, after three weeks of street performances, they'd built up a bit of chemistry, and Miles got the ssage.
Without hesitation, Miles opened his cello case, quickly and skillfully setting up his beloved instrunt, taking his seat in record ti.
Miles glanced at Anson, who gave him a signal with his eyes:
Slower. Ease into it.
Miles responded confidently, pressing down on a string with his left hand. He didn't use the bow, plucking the strings with his right hand.
The deep, rich cello notes beca the foundation, perfectly blending with Anson's guitar.
One clear, one deep. One soaring, one steady.
They echoed each other.
Suddenly, there was depth.
Lily and Connor understood imdiately, stopping their random dancing. Instead, they stood by and shouted in sync.
"Roar! Hey!"
"Roar! Hey!"
Anson began to sing again.
"I don't think you belong with him, imagine a future where you're with , driving to Chinatown. I'll be standing at the corner of Canal and Bowery, she'll be by my side."
No longer holding back, but fully embracing the future, bravely and boldly chasing dreams—like chasing the sun.
Amid the cheers of "Roar" and "Hey," a new attitude toward life erged—carefree, wild, confident, free. Even though life isn't always perfect, it doesn't an you have to hesitate and hold back. In the bright, joyful singing, sunlight slowly poured down.
There was no sadness or loneliness, just smiles lifting at the corners of lips.
Miles' eyes lit up, and his cello fully joined the performance, grand, majestic, and full of passion. The two strings collided and intertwined.
The heart, with wings, soared freely.
"I belong to you, you belong to , you're my sweetheart."
The voice climbed higher.
Emotions brightened.
The sa lody, the sa lyrics, yet Anson injected a completely different energy into the performance, making the song and the rendition feel entirely new.
"I belong to you, you belong to , you're my honey."
Suddenly, Anson pressed down on the guitar strings and looked at Miles.
The emotions paused at their peak, the crowd's eyes naturally following Anson's gaze. The orange sunset poured down onto Miles.
A cello, appearing on the street—slightly unfamiliar, slightly awkward, as the orange glow danced on the deep red instrunt, breathtaking.
Ha.
A smile blood fully on Miles' face as he played with abandon.
The rich sound of the cello exploded with unprecedented passion, from low to high, from humble to flamboyant. The clash of classical and folk music revealed an unbelievable charm.
On the street, the lody flowing from the cello felt like a French chanson—gentle yet grand, light yet graceful, stirring the soul.
anwhile, the hidden rhythm was dancing, as if the twilight glow could be seen spinning and leaping.
The world shimred and flowed.
Be bold, be crazy, be adventurous, dare to break free and dream, and you'll open the door to a whole new world.
Who knew the unknown could be so beautiful?
Music, as a bridge, united everyone. Before anyone could even think clearly, their hearts had already betrayed them, beating along to the rhythm.
Not just the audience—the perforrs too.
Miles was focused and calm, lost in the mont.
His cheeks flushed slightly, a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead, but the bright light in his eyes sparkled in the dusk.
That was passion. That was enthusiasm. That was why he loved music.
Even without a smile on his lips, his spirit was soaring, dancing in the twilight, transforming into notes that joyfully leaped at his fingertips, across the strings, in his steps, and on the corners of his mouth.
Strum, strum.
Anson's guitar strings served as the foundation, subtly enhancing the grandeur and elegance of the cello until Miles' performance hit a pause.
Suddenly, Anson stood up, guitar in hand, and stepped forward.
The cello and guitar swapped roles. Now, the guitar took center stage, with the cello as the accompanint, and the lody roared through the small street corner like the Milky Way falling from the heavens.
Clear, light, bright.
The notes took on vibrant, colorful hues, as if touched by magic.
In that mont, the street corner beca a stage—the very center of the world, the heart of the Earth.
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