Chapter 60: Not So Simple

She shrugged off the old cadre’s jacket, revealing a white shirt tucked into her waistband. Carrying the flush of drink, Huang Guolun strode onto the stage with his head held high.

The guitarist from the folk band lent him a guitar.

A glance at the guitar’s back and sides told him at once—it was rosewood.

Rosewood, similar to red sandalwood, had a deep brownish-red hue with interlaced grain and a substantial weight. Unlike the usual pale folk guitars, this rosewood instrument boasted exceptional sound reflection and a classical bent, often seen at concerts.

Few folk singers would choose such a guitar for accompaniment—it sounded too gentle, lacking the direct aggression and narrative strength typical of folk music. Yet the aura of this guitar matched the band performing at Maktoub Bar tonight—cultured, refined, and a touch coquettish.

Settling onto the high stool, guitar in his arms, Huang Guolun tested the strings. The tuning was perfect, the tone mellow.

Sun Yanzhen and her friends, after listening to a string of gentle songs, grew excited at the arrival of a “newcomer.” The young crowd burst into cheers for Huang Guolun.

Everyone at Sun Yanzhen’s birthday party had heard that she’d invited a teacher from her school whose singing was exceptional. They’d long been eager to hear Mr. Huang perform.

The chatter died down. All eyes converged on Huang Guolun, anticipation thick in the air.

“Come on, uncle, you can do it!”

A girl’s voice suddenly rang out, drawing laughter from the surrounding youths.

Huang Guolun’s demeanor and aura set him apart from these trendy young people. Some thought him old-fashioned.

Yet some girls found themselves drawn to this older man with a story. The kindly smile on his face left a sweet impression on their hearts.

Looking out at the diverse faces below, Huang Guolun felt a swell of emotion—bitter, sweet, and finally, calm. He’d once walked through this very age.

His life had been smooth sailing, until tragedy struck at the happiest moment. It was reminiscent of his uncle, Huang Hao—who, at the height of success, was also met by disaster.

He wondered if such misfortune was connected to their family’s long history of ill-gotten wealth.

Regardless, his fate had brought him here. There was little left to complain about. There was no going back. All he could do was press on, carrying his scars.

He remembered his last embrace with Chen Jia, and their very first meeting—memories forever etched in his heart.

Looking back now, their first encounter felt like a world ago.

He’d just graduated from college, returning home, quarreling with his mother about whether to pursue teaching.

Fresh from the conservatory, Huang Guolun had wanted to be a free musician. In Old Lady Zhou’s eyes, though, a free musician was no different from an unemployed drifter.

Their family was comfortably off; Huang Guolun didn’t need to work hard to support anyone. Still, Old Lady Zhou couldn’t accept her son turning idle.

Back then, Kunlun Culture had yet to be established—otherwise, he’d have simply joined the family business. With no such option, he faced immense pressure to find a job.

Old Lady Zhou demanded he find proper employment. If not, he’d have to get a teaching certificate—connections would ensure him a position.

Those days, Huang Guolun endured constant nagging, utterly vexed.

That was when Chen Jia appeared.

It was a rain-washed evening; a double rainbow arched across the sky.

Huang Guolun lounged in a deck chair in the backyard of their other villa, idly watching the rainbow. Old Lady Zhou bustled nearby, still reminding him to get his teaching certificate.

A girl came running, breathless, and called over the fence, “Auntie, have you seen a dog? Lazy, always dragging its feet.”

Old Lady Zhou paused, then pointed to Huang Guolun on the chair, “Is it him?”

The girl burst out laughing.

Huang Guolun turned awkwardly, meeting her gaze. In the glow of sunset and rainbows, her playful smile and eyes bright as stars seared themselves into his memory.

This was Chen Jia.

In that moment, Chen Jia also remembered Huang Guolun, who was then as lazy as the dog she sought.

Through the search for her lost Old English Sheepdog, the two met. The sheepdog’s son, Dudu, now lived with Huang Guolun—a testament to their love.

Their journey from acquaintance to deep affection was anything but smooth. They broke up and reconciled many times, but love and forgiveness saw them through. They became partners in both soul and body.

Until disaster struck.

He remembered their final embrace—Chen Jia told him to live happily, that she’d be watching from above.

But without Chen Jia, how could he find happiness? Even now, Huang Guolun did not know how to embrace a new future.

So memory became his saddest, yet most cherished memorial.

Now, for the sake of their greatest legacy—their daughter, Peach—he needed to open his heart again.

Yet after countless blind dates, he’d met more women than he could count, and still, finding someone as compatible and easy to talk to as Chen Jia seemed impossible.

Now, as those eager eyes below watched him, especially Sun Yanzhen’s, bright as star-lit lakes, Huang Guolun wished he could tell them: Finding the right partner isn’t simple. It’s the same for music, for love, for life itself.

When you can’t have what you seek, all you can do is savor the bittersweet intoxication of life.

With that longing awakened by wine, Huang Guolun closed his eyes and gently strummed the strings.

The moment he sang, every ear in the bar pricked up—the hungry young crowd, the bored bartenders, the middle-aged owner polishing a guitar, and the resting musicians.

“It’s not that simple, to find someone you really talk to—
Especially after seeing so much betrayal.
Restless, you pretend to be tough,
Who killed my romance...

It’s not that simple, to love again, ignoring all else.
Becoming practical—half good, half bad.
You don’t like being alone, but soon you get used to it,
No one to worry about, no one to answer to...”

With the rosewood guitar’s gentle chords, Huang Guolun’s voice—mature as aged iron—poured out like old wine, slowly filling every ear, then every heart.

No one had expected that this unremarkable middle-aged man could sing with such magnetic tenderness and romance. Was this the legendary “one-listen pregnancy”—a voice that could make you fall in love at first sound?

Sun Yanzhen hadn’t lied—Mr. Huang truly had something special! His song was mesmerizing.

It was like hearing a seasoned soul recounting stories of love; the girls were captivated by Huang Guolun’s “introduction.” The distance between them and him seemed to vanish with every note.

Tipsy and entranced, their heartstrings were plucked by Huang Guolun’s singing, drawing them deeper into his musical world:

“If you feel happy, keep busy,
If you’re tired, clear your mind.
Let others’ words drift by,
You make your own decisions.

Don’t want too many emotions,
A glass of red wine with a movie,
Shut off your phone on a weekend night,
Curled up comfortably on the sofa...

Falling in love isn’t easy,
Everyone has their temper.
Gone are the days of wild dreams,
Passion fades into peace...

Happiness isn’t easy,
That’s what makes it so alluring.
When we knew nothing,
We gave our all,
So we were happiest, once...”

The lyrics, so plain, so simple, pierced straight to the heart, letting listeners taste the sour romance gathering like a tidal wave, ready to sweep their souls.

When the emotional chorus crashed over them, the resonance was so intense that many girls felt a bittersweet ache.

Huang Guolun was singing his story—but also the loneliness in every heart.

Wine had loosened every nerve steeped in longing, and Huang Guolun sang with such moving power that he reached the very peak of his thirty-year musical journey.

Before these “children,” he seemed a seasoned elder, weaving romance for them, yet also laying bare every hidden sorrow without mercy.

Every note he played and sang carried raw, naked emotion, mingled with all the unspoken feelings that words could not express.

These boundless waves of emotion finally settled into tranquility with the passage of time.

And all of it distilled into the song’s final line: “Missing you is the saddest, yet the most moving—memory.”

For the first time, Sun Yanzhen heard Huang Guolun sing with such feeling.

She’d heard him only in noisy KTVs before, never left with much impression.

Hearing his voice sing “Content” on her phone, she’d already felt a pull.

But now, in the romantic hush of the bar, listening quietly to Huang Guolun sing his heart, she felt suddenly struck—by his voice, by the song.

As she’d said herself earlier: falling in love isn’t simple.

After her own heartbreak, she’d come to believe happiness is never easy—that’s what makes it so enchanting.

She’d moved on, living a refined, peaceful life. But compared to past sweetness, this peace held a trace of bitterness.

After a deep love ends, no one can say how long it takes before you feel as if you’re waking from a long dream.

The bittersweet romance Huang Guolun sang wove an awakening in Sun Yanzhen’s soul.

One step, one blossom of white; a bridge, rain and an opening umbrella; a dream, a pot of wine; a white robe, a life tailored.

In this moment, Huang Guolun, every cell on stage radiating deep emotion and musical allure, lit a lantern in Sun Yanzhen’s heart—not for Peach, but for himself alone.

Like sipping vintage wine, she suddenly envied the woman who had borne Peach—the woman who inspired Huang Guolun to write and sing such passionate songs, loving without knowing how or why.