Chapter 59: Father is Seven Years Old
A simple beginning, like a daughter reading her father’s diary, with no complex techniques involved.
But this performance, so devoid of technique, captivated everyone.
Many who were just laughing and joking moments ago were now quietly watching the television, listening intently as Zhang Liangying ‘read’ her father’s prose poem.
Upon hearing the lines, “Tomorrow I’ll borrow more money from the neighbors, the child cried all day, clamoring for biscuits,” an indescribable emotion welled up.
This scene, even if not personally experienced, felt familiar.
Fathers and daughters, fathers and sons watching the competition together at home remained silent, afraid to look at each other, lest their emotions overwhelm them.
Some daughters hid in the bathroom or bedroom, holding back tears, yet still secretly leaned against the door, listening to Zhang Liangying’s heartfelt performance.
Some sons deliberately changed the subject, chatting with their elderly fathers about work or studies.
Daughters and sons working far from home thought of their fathers, miles away, shedding tears alone in their rented rooms.
“My father, he must be about seven years old now…”
“I want to call him.”
“No matter how much money I make this year, I’m definitely going home for the New Year!”
“Zhang Liangying, I didn’t really like you before, but this song has changed my mind a lot. You are definitely a good girl.”
“…”
Chengdu.
Zhang Liangying’s mother sat at the mahjong table, her thoughts drifting back to before 1998, when Old Zhang was still around, the family was happy, and Liangying was still a child with a father.
The mahjong game stopped. The three friends and the neighbors watching quietly turned their attention to the television; no one wanted to break the silence.
The only sound in the room was the singing from the television.
Everyone’s thoughts seemed to have flown back to their own distant pasts.
Unknowingly, Zhang Guiying’s face was streaked with tears, yet she didn’t seem to notice. Watching her daughter sing with the microphone, her heart was filled with a myriad of emotions.
…
Why is there so much shared empathy?
In reality, besides emotional bonds, it’s an economic issue!
In China in 2005, countless people were on the brink of subsistence. Hundreds of millions had not escaped poverty, and many earned only a few hundred yuan a month.
Borrowing money was a common act for many fathers during that era.
You lend to me today, and I’ll lend to you when you’re in trouble tomorrow. The little bit of change in everyone’s pockets circulated among relatives and friends, year after year, yet everyone’s pockets never seemed to fill up.
Furthermore.
The imagery in the lyrics—crops, outdoor movies, sewing machines, and a daughter crying for biscuits—represented the lives experienced by the vast majority of ordinary people.
It was real, hence moving.
At this very moment.
On stage.
Zhang Liangying continued to sing the simple, unadorned lyrics, her performance imbued with a sincere, deep, and earnest emotion, giving the entire song a strong sense of nostalgia.
“The verse is over, the chorus, the chorus is coming!”
“Ahhh…”
“Zhang Liangying!!!”
…
“These are words from my father’s diary.”
“This is his youth, left behind.”
“A prose poem left behind.”
“Decades later, I look at it and can’t stop crying.”
“And my father has become, a shadow in a photo frame.”
“…”
With a hum, a tingling sensation spread and surged, rapidly propagating through the studio and into living rooms.
From the host and judges to the Liangfen fans, the other seven contestants, and the thirty-five public judges, everyone was shaken by the song.
“Does a song have that much power?”
“I always thought songs were just for entertainment, but I never expected that songs, like timeless literature, possess the power to transcend time and space.”
“The lyrics are amazing, absolutely brilliant.”
“If Zhang Liangying doesn’t win the championship, Mango TV can just close down.”
“With this song out, who can compete with her tonight?”
“…”
In this chorus, Zhang Liangying’s voice carried a hint of a sob, a touch of a cry, like the divine axe in Shen Gong’s hand, cleaving through everyone’s final psychological defenses.
Visibly, everyone’s expression was one of agony.
The emotions from the depths of their hearts surged uncontrollably. Despite their efforts to restrain them, the neural signals could not be suppressed, and some audience members’ facial muscles began to twitch.
Especially those who had lived through the experiences described in the lyrics, tears streamed down their faces as their fathers’ shadows seemed to appear before their eyes.
Even some rebellious teenagers, thinking of their fathers’ silent sacrifices, couldn’t help but shed tears.
This song is like a steaming bowl of late-night supper made by a father on a winter night, appearing before you when you’ve worked overtime until midnight and return to your cold, empty rented room, dragging your weary body.
In the silent, deep night…
You take a sniff, and it evokes endless memories.
You take a bite, and it’s like conversing with your father.
You sip the soup and instantly understand the pressure on your father’s shoulders.
“The chorus is incredible, this melody, these lyrics, they really make you want to cry.”
“This song is so tear-jerking.”
“That last part was absolutely sealed in godhood!”
“No technique, all emotion.”
“Two songs tonight, the same feel. Liangying is thoughtful; she’s already unifying the album’s style before it’s even released.”
“…”
On the judges’ panel, He Jiong thought of his father.
His father’s health was not good, and the thought of that day always worried He Jiong.
If that day were to come, and he couldn’t be there because he was hosting a show, what a great regret that would be!
Can’t think about it!
Don’t think about it!
He Jiong took a deep breath, exhaled forcefully, and slowly calmed himself, but Zhang Liangying’s hoarse singing made it impossible for him to ignore.
Xia Qing next to him continuously wiped away tears. Already very emotional, she had long since dissolved into tears—she was thinking of her grandparents.
As for Li Xiang and Wang Han, they were both silent.
At this moment, the shock to their hearts was far greater than that of the farewell.
…
“In 1998, the crops had long been harvested.”
“My frail body, last year, was almost broken by illness.”
“My daughter, with her ponytail, ran into the school campus.”
“But recently, she’s been a bit worried, she’s lost a lot of weight.”
“Thinking about the future.”
“I’ve become an old photograph.”
“My daughter at that time will surely be stunningly beautiful.”
“There will be a man who loves her, who wants to marry her.”
“But thinking of this, I can’t bear to look at her.”
“…”
As she sang to this point, Zhang Liangying’s eyes were completely blurred by tears. She could only vaguely see a boy standing below.
Is he the man who will marry me, as sung in the lyrics?
Yes!
It must be him.
Because he wrote these lyrics, why wouldn’t he marry me?
In the future, if I can hold a concert, I will definitely propose to him in front of tens of thousands of audience members!
…
Meanwhile.
The listeners’ hearts were once again pierced by the song.
Each line of lyrics was so vivid, painting a clear image of a sick father within the song.
It was the reluctance and helplessness of not being able to see his daughter grow up, start her career, or get married.
During the final chorus, almost all the audience members swayed their cheering sticks to the melody.
The other contestants also watched Zhang Liangying with complex expressions; the gap in skill made them lose any thought of competition.
“These are words from my father’s diary.”
“This is his life, left behind.”
“A prose poem left behind.”
“Decades later, I look at it and can’t stop crying.”
“But my father has become, a shadow on a photo frame.”
The music abruptly stopped.
…
After the original lyrics ended, the music faded out slowly, but Shen Qing felt that an abrupt stop would have been more impactful.
Li Xiang, with red eyes, walked onto the stage and handed Zhang Liangying some tissues. Liangying wiped her tears and bowed deeply, “Thank you, everyone!”
…
Perhaps your father doesn’t write prose poems or diaries; perhaps he doesn’t even know many characters, but for you, he has flipped through the dictionary of his life.
