Going home for the Chinese New Year with a year-end bonus of 100 million

On Thursday afternoon, Lao Xu sent over the remix demo.

Lin Che was wiping his guitar in the studio when his phone vibrated. It was a file transfer request from Lao Xu. He put down the guitar cloth, hovered his finger over the screen for two seconds, and then tapped "accept".

The file was small, and the transfer progress bar moved very quickly.

When the download completion notification sounded, he suddenly hesitated to open it.

He took a few deep breaths, plugged his phone into the small speaker in his studio, turned the volume to medium, and then pressed play.

The intro flowed from the amp—it was played on his old guitar, with a slight delay added by Lao Xu during the mix, making the sound seem to resonate in an empty room. Then Ah Kun's bass came in, deep and steady, like the pulse of the earth. Next came Xiao Pang's drums, the snare drum hitting crisply on the second and fourth beats.

Then came his voice.

"The streetlights at the alley entrance are still on, and you ride your bicycle through the twilight..."

He listened to the entire song with his eyes closed.

Three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

After the playback ended, the room remained quiet for a long time. Lin Che sat in the chair, motionless, the indicator light on the speaker changing from green to orange, indicating standby mode.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to Lao Xu: "Brother Xu, I can't find any fault with this mixing."

After a while, Lao Xu replied: "Then I won't choose. I made three versions of this song, and the one I sent you is the last one I mixed. You can decide which one to use."

Two more files were then sent.

Lin Che listened to all three versions. The first version was relatively clean, with the vocals prominent and the accompaniment restrained, like listening to a singer perform a cappella in a recording studio. The second version added more space and reverb, making it sound more like a performance in an old factory, with the sound bouncing between the walls. The third version—the one Lao Xu released first—found a balance between restraint and atmosphere; every harmonic of the guitar was clearly discernible, and the husky quality of the vocals was preserved, as if the speaker was trying hard to suppress their emotions.

He chose the third version.

"Use the one you sent the first time," he replied to Lao Xu.

"Okay. Mom will help me finish it in the next couple of days, and I can go online next week."

Lin Che stared at the words "online" and felt a sense of unreality. Six months ago, he was still in his rented apartment in Beijing, checking his bank account balance, wondering if he should continue making music. Now, a song he wrote for his mother had been recorded and mixed, and would be available on music platforms in a few days.

He put down his phone and placed his palm flat on the table. The wood grain of the table was warm from the sun, and it had a slightly rough texture to the touch. Authentic.

After dinner, Lin Che helped his mother sit down on the sofa, turned on his phone, and connected it to a Bluetooth speaker.

"Mom, I have something to tell you."

The old lady was holding a pair of scissors, trimming the withered leaves of a potted green plant on the coffee table—it was something Shen Wei had brought over, saying it could purify the air. Hearing Lin Che's words, she put down the scissors and pushed her reading glasses up: "What's that?"

"It's the song I sang for you last time, it's finished recording now."

He pressed play.

When the prelude began, the old lady didn't speak, but listened quietly. Her gaze fell on a potted green ivy on the windowsill, but her eyes weren't focused, as if she were looking into the distance.

When she sang the line, "You owe me permission to say 'I'm tired,'" the old lady's fingers twitched slightly on her knee.

The song finished playing, and the living room was quiet for a few seconds.

The old lady took off her reading glasses, wiped the lenses with the corner of her clothes, and put them back on. Her movements were slow, not so much because the glasses were actually dirty, but more like she was giving herself some time.

"It's fine," she said, her voice a little lower than usual.

"It's that phrase, 'You owe me'—" the old lady paused, "Mom doesn't owe you anything."

"Mom knows you care about me. But you have to remember, a mother doesn't feel that's hardship. Whether it's making clothes for you or cooking for you, it's what Mom does willingly. If you feel indebted, that's what makes Mom sad."

Lin Che looked at her.

Under the light, her eyes shone slightly, but no tears fell. Her tone was calm, as if she were talking about something she had been thinking about for a long time.

"I know, Mom," he said, "but that's what I wanted to say to you most when I was writing the lyrics, so I wrote it."

The old lady stared at him for two seconds, then sighed and laughed: "Your stubbornness comes from your father."

She turned her head to look at the night view outside the window, and added, "But it's all good."

On Friday night, Su Jing posted a message on her WeChat Moments.

It was a photograph—a half-finished garment on her worktable, made of gray-blue fabric, with the Chinese knot buttons only half-sewn, a wooden ruler and a powder compact beside it. The composition was simple, the soft lighting highlighting the fabric's texture. She captioned it: "Making a garment is like writing a song; you don't know what it will look like until the last button is sewn on."

Shortly after this post was published on WeChat Moments, it received a lot of likes and comments.

One of the comments was from Shen Wei: "Let me see it when it's done?"

Su Jing replied with a single word: "Okay".

A few minutes later, Shen Wei sent me a private message: "Are you free this Saturday night? Come over for dinner, I learned a new dish. Also, take a look at your half-finished product."

Su Jing laughed: "Do you want to see me, or do you want to see the clothes?"

"Watch them all."

Su Jing stared at the two words for a while, then replied with a "Okay".

When Su Jing arrived at Shen Wei's house on Saturday evening, it wasn't completely dark yet.

Shen Wei lives on the top floor of an old apartment building. It has two bedrooms and a living room, and the decoration is simple but very clean. On the balcony of the living room, there are several pots of mint and basil, and a small tomato plant in a ceramic pot with a few fruits that are not yet fully ripe.

"Come in and make yourself at home." Shen Wei, wearing an apron, poked her head out from the kitchen. "The food will be ready soon."

Su Jing changed into slippers, placed the half-finished item she had brought on the sofa, and glanced into the kitchen. On the stove sat a frying pan, two pieces of salmon pan-fried, their edges already golden brown and crispy. Next to it, on the cutting board, was a plate of chopped asparagus and cherry tomatoes, their colors beautifully combined.

"Didn't you say you learned a new dish?" Su Jing asked.

"I learned how to pan-fry salmon with asparagus from a video." Shen Wei carefully flipped the salmon over with a spatula. "I used to think cooking was difficult, but after trying it a few times, I found that as long as you control the heat well, it's not that complicated."

"Many things are like that," Su Jing said, leaning against the door frame. "Before you do it, it seems difficult, but after you do it, you realize that it's actually just a few steps."

Shen Wei didn't turn around, but a slight smile appeared on her lips: "Are you talking about making clothes, or something else?"

Su Jing didn't answer directly. She paused for a moment, then said, "I'll talk about a lot of things."

They sat facing each other at the small dining table in the living room during dinner. The window was open, and the evening breeze blew in from the balcony, carrying the scents of mint leaves and earth. The salmon was pan-fried to perfection, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, while the asparagus and tomatoes were simply seasoned with olive oil and black pepper, preserving the natural flavors of the ingredients.

"It's delicious," Su Jing said.

"Really? I was worried I didn't put in enough salt."

"Perfect."

Shen Wei picked up her wine glass, took a sip, and then put it down: "The market starts next week. We're still short a few volunteers. I'm thinking of reducing the number of stalls to ensure the quality of operation."

"How much difference?"

"About ten people."

"I used to volunteer at events when I was in college," Su Jing said, picking up a piece of salmon. "If you really need more people, I can help out for a day or two."

Shen Wei looked at her, somewhat surprised: "Weren't you still making clothes?"

"The time can be adjusted," Su Jing said. "And I also want to see what that market you mentioned is like."

Shen Wei was silent for two seconds, then smiled: "Then I'll give you a volunteer T-shirt."

"What color is it?"

"yellow."

"That looks pretty."

After dinner, Su Jing took the half-finished product from the sofa and unfolded it for Shen Wei to see.

It's a stand-up collar coat with Chinese knot buttons, made of gray-blue cotton-linen fabric. The lines of the front and hem aren't completely finished yet, and one of the Chinese knot buttons at the collar is only half-sewn, with a loose thread hanging out. The coat is only one-third of the way through the work, but its general shape and overall feel are already there.

"The only things missing are the piping on the cuffs and the topstitching on the hem," Su Jing said, pointing to the unfinished parts. "Once these two areas are sewn on, and the remaining buttons are sewed on, it will be finished."

Shen Wei reached out and touched the fabric: "It feels so nice. Where did you buy this fabric?"

"A fabric shop in the old town. The owner is an old lady in her seventies. The shop is piled with all kinds of fabrics, some of which were stocked more than ten years ago and have never been sold. This piece of fabric is at the bottom of a box. She said that if no one buys it, she will use it as a rag."

"Then you've saved it."

"It saved me," Su Jing said. "When I saw this piece of cloth, I knew what I wanted to do. Sometimes inspiration isn't something you think up, it's something you encounter."

Looking at the half-finished product, Shen Wei suddenly asked, "Have you named it yet?"

Su Jing shook her head: "Let's talk about it after we're done."

"Then I'll wait until it's finished."

Su Jing folded the clothes and put them in the bag. It was completely dark outside, with only the city lights twinkling in the distance. The wind was cooler than in the evening, carrying the chill of late autumn and early winter.

"It's going to get colder," Shen Wei said.

"Mmm." Su Jing hugged the bag to her chest. "So we have to make it quickly so we can still wear it."

That night, after Su Jing left, Shen Wei sat alone on the sofa and looked through the planning documents for the "Autumn Harvest" market on her phone again. There were seven more names on the volunteer list—three were leaders of university clubs who had agreed to help mobilize volunteers, two were friends she had met at other events who had volunteered, and the other was Su Jing.

With the existing 32, there are now 39.

There is still a shortage, but it's much smaller than before. She plans to merge some non-core volunteer positions; for example, the entrance guidance and order maintenance can be handled by the same person, and the registration area and information desk can also be combined. This way, the configuration of forty-five booths should be feasible.

She saved the file and turned off her phone.

The living room light was still on, and the mint leaves on the windowsill swayed gently in the night breeze. She walked over, picked a mint leaf, crushed it between her fingers, and inhaled its cool, slightly spicy aroma. Then she placed the leaf on the kitchen counter, turned off the light, and went back to her room.

There's always tomorrow.

On Sunday morning, Lin Che received the final master tape file from Lao Xu.

"It's all set. Listen to it yourself, and if there are no problems, you can upload it."

Lin Che didn't open it immediately. He first went to the kitchen to boil a pot of water and make a cup of tea, then returned to his computer, put on his headphones, and opened the file.

This version has undergone a slight change from the original mix—the ratio of vocals to instruments has been adjusted a little, and the overall dynamics are smoother, as if all the sounds have been gently smoothed out by an invisible hand, while retaining all the details.

He listened to it once with his eyes closed, and then listened to it again.

After listening twice, he took off his headphones and typed back to Lao Xu: "No problem."

After posting, he opened the music platform's backend and filled in the song information, uploaded the audio file and cover image according to the process.

The cover photo was taken by Zhou Jin. That night, while singing at Lin Che's studio, Zhou Jin took a picture with his phone—Lin Che was standing in the light of a floor lamp, holding a guitar. The picture was dark, with most details hidden in shadow, only the outline of the guitar and the silhouette of half of her face were illuminated.

That photo was surprisingly suitable as a cover.

Lin Che paused for a moment in the "Song Description" section, and finally wrote a sentence:

"Dedicated to my mother. She taught me that mending is also a form of creation."

He clicked "Submit for Review".

A message popped up on the screen: "Your work has been submitted. The estimated review time is 1-3 business days."

He looked at the words and leaned back in his chair.

The sunlight streaming through the window was perfect, illuminating the edge of the computer screen and causing him to squint slightly. The teacup beside the keyboard still steamed, reflecting a small patch of amber light.

He picked up the teacup and took a sip, burning his tongue, but he smiled.