On ordinary days, Henry Clark always wore a cheerful smile, hands in his pockets, swaggering around mischievously. His hair was fluffy and slightly curly, his eyes half-closed most of the time, like a lazy big feline. But in truth, he had a pair of pupils darker and larger than most people’s. The moment he stopped talking and stared with his eyes wide open, a sharp, provocative sense of pressure would radiate from him, like two bottomless black springs.

The tattooed guy was lying shirtless on the bed, breaking out in goosebumps under his gaze.

“This handsome guy… is he the next client?”

“Him? No.” David Morgan was bent over, filling in color, and replied casually, “He’s my best friend.”

“Oh.” The guy cleared his throat. “Then can you have him step out for a bit? The way he’s staring is making me uncomfortable.”

Henry Clark blinked his big eyes and grinned shamelessly, “Bro, I’m his best friend, not the mafia.”

“Get out of here!” David Morgan stopped the tattoo machine and randomly found something for him to do. “Actually, I think I left my wallet in the car this morning. Go help me look for it.”

With that, he pulled out the car keys and tossed them over.

“Sure thing, Boss Zhou.” Henry Clark got up, deliberately bent down to whisper in the guy’s ear, “Take your time with the tattoo.”

David Morgan couldn’t hold back and gave him a kick.

Unfortunately, he missed.

Humming the children’s song he’d just taught that day, Henry Clark opened the car door, plopped into the driver’s seat, and hunched over searching for a long while, but saw no sign of the wallet. He turned around and craned his neck to check the back seat—still nothing.

“So you’re messing with me, huh.”

“Fine, I’ll just smoke all your cigarettes.”

He opened the center console, moving with practiced ease, but didn’t find David Morgan’s cigarettes. Instead, he spotted a letter hidden at the very bottom.

He only had to see the word “Yunnan” in the address field on the envelope for Henry Clark to freeze.

He couldn’t be more familiar with that messy handwriting.

In that instant, it was as if an invisible switch had been flipped. The car fell utterly silent, all sounds blocked out, even the light seemed to dim.

He suddenly recalled David Morgan’s odd behavior a few days ago—asking if any debt collectors had come by, hemming and hawing, starting a sentence but never finishing it.

So there was a reason after all.

The envelope had already been opened. Inside were just two sheets of paper: one was a letter, the other a pencil drawing. The drawing showed mountains, a group of children gathered around a tall figure at the foot of the hills. That was him—the hair was curly, the eyelashes drawn too long, almost fairy-like, with a beauty mark on the face.

In the drawing, he was leading the children in song, musical notes floating everywhere.

In stark contrast to this happy picture was the content of the letter, a scene of joy set against real sorrow.

As he read, Henry Clark’s old problem of auditory hallucinations flared up again. He could truly hear the voices of the mountain children, and the songs he’d taught them. The more he listened, the colder he felt, as if his heart had fallen off a cliff in the Yunnan mountains, with no end in sight.

Heart disease. Shock.

These terrible words fluttered before his eyes like moths, impossible to catch, impossible to stop.

Time in the car seemed to stand still. By the time David Morgan came looking, it was already dark.

“I told you to find a wallet, not die in there!” He yanked open the car door, grumbling.

But when he saw the letter in Henry Clark’s hand, he froze, silent for a long time before speaking again.

“Don’t blame me for keeping it from you, I…” David Morgan choked, “I didn’t know how to tell you. With everything you’re dealing with right now, you’ve got enough trouble of your own. Where would you get the money to help him…”

“How long can you keep it a secret?” Henry Clark wasn’t angry, just looked at him directly, his usual playful grin gone.

David Morgan got anxious first. “So what do you want me to do?! The kid isn’t just a little sick—heart disease needs long-term treatment. You’re barely keeping your own head above water, where would you get the money for charity? You think it’s like before?”

After he finished, both of them fell silent.

David Morgan’s throat felt like it was being scraped by knives. Regret hit him fast—he shouldn’t have said so much, especially not that last sentence.

In the end, it was Henry Clark’s smile that broke the deadlock.

“You’re right.” He spoke lightly, got out of the car with the letter in hand. “I’m heading back.”

David Morgan tried to stop him. “I’ll lend you some money first, let the kid get a follow-up at the city hospital.”

“We’ll talk later. I’ll try to figure something out myself.” Henry Clark didn’t look back as he walked toward the dark alley, waving a hand behind him. “Get some sleep.”

Back home, Henry Clark pulled a dusty guitar case from under the bed, blew the dust off and ended up coughing hard.

He opened the case. Inside was a bright orange guitar, shining under the little lamp by the bed, looking brand new.

He used to have a room full of guitars, arranged like a music store. Later, he sold or tossed most of them, only a few remained.

He kept this one because it was his eighteenth birthday present.

Back then, his mom would scold him for not doing anything serious, but she still secretly bought him the guitar he’d wanted for so long, sneaking it to his bedside while he slept.

Early the next morning, Henry Clark hugged the guitar and ran to his mom’s room, playing “Merry Christmas” for her out of nowhere as she did her makeup.

“What’s gotten into you now?” his mom said, putting on lipstick.