A perfect score on the college entrance exam? The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng has astonis

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The two sat down on the sofa.

Boss Meng brewed tea, this year's new Longjing tea, the tea soup was clear and the aroma was wonderful.

Su Wanci took a sip, but Chen Mo didn't—he didn't like tea.

Boss Meng didn't insist. He poured himself a glass, held it, leaned back on the sofa, and looked at Chen Mo with an indescribable look in his eyes.

It's like a collector finally seeing the piece they've been searching for for a long time; it's not about possessiveness, it's about appreciation.

"Chen Mo, to tell you the truth..."

Boss Meng put down his teacup and leaned forward.

"I've been running this studio for seven or eight years and have recorded a lot of singers, some professional, some amateur, some famous, and some not famous."

"But I've never recorded someone like you before."

He thought for a moment, seemingly considering his words.

"I've listened to your 'Pipa Xing' at least twenty times on Douyin."

"I hear something different every time I listen. The first time I listen to the melody, the second time to the lyrics, the third time to your voice, and the fourth time to something within your voice. There's something in your voice that..."

He paused for a moment.

"I can't explain it, but I know it's real. It wasn't sung, it flowed from my heart."

Sitting next to him, listening to Boss Meng's words, Su Wanci suddenly realized that this person understood Chen Mo.

Not everyone listens to a song twenty times, and not everyone can say "it comes from the heart" after listening to it twenty times.

She glanced at Chen Mo; his expression didn't change much, but Su Wanci noticed that the corner of his mouth twitched slightly—a very small curve that only she could see.

"Let's begin."

Chen Mo stood up.

Boss Meng also stood up and led him into the recording studio.

Su Wanci followed behind, standing in front of the glass window of the control room.

Through the huge glass, she saw Chen Mo walk into the studio, stand in front of the microphone, take the guitar off his back, and hug it to his arms.

He lowered his head and tuned the strings very slowly, plucking each string several times, listening intently, turning the knob, plucking again, and listening again.

The warm yellow light shone on him, bathing his profile in a soft glow.

Su Wanci stood there, her hands resting on the edge of the control panel, looking at him through the glass.

She suddenly found the glass annoying; she wanted to stand next to it, not outside it.

"Are you ready?"

Boss Meng's voice came through the microphone on the control panel into the recording studio.

Chen Mo looked up and nodded at the glass.

Boss Meng pressed the record button.

A green wavy line lit up on the console screen, moving slowly across the screen like a quietly flowing river.

Chen Mo plucked the first string.

It's not the prelude to "The Song of the Pipa," but a very simple single note, like a string tentatively exploring the world.

Then the second note, the third note, the fourth note.

Several single notes strung together form a melody.

The melody was very light, as light as the wind blowing across a lake, but Su Wanci heard it.

She stood in the control room, her hands resting on the edge of the table, her fingers slightly bent, her knuckles white.

She heard that melody, and then she remembered that evening under the willow trees by West Lake.

The setting sun dyed the lake surface orange-red. Chen Mo sat on a folding chair, holding a guitar, and sang the first line, "Seeing off guests at night at the head of Xunyang River."

She was standing in the middle of the crowd, several steps away from him.

Today she stood in the control room, separated from him by glass, less than five meters away.

She felt it wasn't close enough; she wanted to go inside, stand next to him, and listen to him sing.

But she didn't move, because she knew she couldn't go in at this time.

This is his moment.

Chen Mo spoke.

"At the head of the Xunyang River, I saw off a guest at night; the maple leaves and reeds rustled in the autumn breeze."

His voice came through the microphone in the studio and flowed out of the speakers in the control room, filling the entire room.

Su Wanci noticed that his voice sounded different from usual.

When he speaks, his voice is flat, without much variation, like a river without waves.

When the song was sung, the river rippled, not very high, but the kind of fine, fragmented waves that shimmered in the sunlight.

She closed her eyes, listening to the voice echoing in the room, listening to him sing, "The host dismounts, the guest sits on the boat, raising a cup to drink, but there is no music."

When she heard the lines, "Drunk, I cannot find joy as we part, the moon shines over the vast river at parting," her eyelashes trembled slightly.

Boss Meng sat at the control panel, his hand holding the volume knob on the monitoring headphones, but he wasn't adjusting the volume; his fingers were just resting there.

It's like needing to grab onto something to steady yourself.

He has recorded for many singers.

Some singers get very nervous when they enter the studio, and their voices tremble.

Some singers are very confident, and their voices are straightforward.

Some singers are very experienced, and their voices are oily.

But Chen Mo doesn't belong to either category.

His voice was steady, not shaky, not harsh, and not oily; it was as steady as Mount Tai.

It's not the rigid stability, but a living stability, like a tree with roots that are planted very, very deep.

Su Wanci opened her eyes and looked at Chen Mo on the other side of the glass.

He had his eyes closed, his brows slightly furrowed, and his lips very close to the microphone.

When he sang, "After much calling, she finally appeared, still holding her pipa, half-concealing her face."

His brows relaxed a bit, as if he were recalling something from long ago. He remembered it, not with great sadness or joy, just with a sense of recollection.

She thought of herself in the crowd by West Lake.

She stood by the Broken Bridge, listening to the story of the White Snake, and cried her heart out.

At that time, Chen Mo stood behind her, without saying a word or handing her a tissue, just watching her cry.

Then he recited the poem "Jiang Cheng Zi". At the time, she didn't know why he was reciting that poem, but now she did.

He wasn't writing about Bai Suzhen; he was writing about himself—the fear of losing her.

Her eyes reddened.

Chen Mo sang, "The large strings are loud like a sudden rain, the small strings are soft like whispers."

He sang those two lines very quickly, so fast it sounded like each word was popping out of his mouth, but every word was clear and distinct.

Su Wanci thought of a phrase—"large and small pearls falling onto a jade plate."

She didn't know what Bai Juyi was thinking when he wrote that line of poetry, but she knew that's exactly how Chen Mo sang it.

It wasn't the beads falling onto the plate, but the words falling into her heart; each one carried weight.

Boss Meng finally removed his finger from the volume knob, leaned back in his chair, took off his headphones, and wiped his glasses with his sleeve.

He wasn't wiping the dust; he was just making an excuse to move his hand because it was trembling involuntarily.

He has been recording songs for seven or eight years and has never had his hands shake when he hears a song.

He was shaking today.

It's not because the song's technique is particularly advanced.

To be honest, Chen Mo's guitar playing is only average, and his vocal quality is only above average.

He was shaking because of something in the song.

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