Artifact Report

Chapter 391 My Flowers in 2019
I'm trapped.

The surroundings were shrouded in mist, with varying degrees of darkness, sometimes light and sometimes heavy, alternating in a hazy atmosphere; it felt as if I were walking in an underground river where the resistance was sometimes light and sometimes heavy, sometimes viscous and sometimes smooth.

I feel like I've been walking for a long time, but I still can't find the exit of the underground river.

No matter how anxious I was, I tried desperately to take big steps, but I couldn't walk fast; I wanted to shout for help, but no sound came out.

Where exactly am I trapped?

I can barely remember how I got here. My memory, like the surrounding dark river, is filled with layers of mottled shadows, without a single clear outline—

and many more.

It felt like a memory had suddenly touched my shoulder.

That song... the song that's playing now from the depths of darkness is my signature song; it's my voice, singing like a misty haze.

I am the sky gradually turning purple at dusk.

I am a dialogue without words.
Gazing at you in silence
The road home is winding and silent
I swam in the torrential rain and floated on the waves.
When someone awakens me, I will be submerged.
It sank to the bottom of the sea and never saw the light of day again.
When I arrived in Blackmore City, I was only eighteen years old, with just a good voice, fantasies of becoming famous, and seven hundred dollars.

My hometown is a small city with just over 5,000 people. There, my talent shone brightly, and I was full of potential. In Blackmore City, I was just a weed by the roadside.

Seventeen people lived in the house I rented.

I slept in a hammock in the attic. Sometimes my back would ache so badly that I would lay out blankets on the wooden crates and suitcases. At the other end of the attic, three other girls slept, each with their own unrealistic ideas, just like me.

Some want to be writers, some want to be fashion designers, some want to be actors... What we have in common is that we spend most of our time each day doing things that have nothing to do with our dreams: flipping hamburger patties, serving food to customers, and writing reviews for restaurants.

Countless young people like me have plunged into the world's most bustling metropolises, turning their lives into fuel for their relentless advance; simply because we believe in one saying—if you can make it in Blackmore City, you can be invincible anywhere in the world.

...I remember everything, including why I came in and how to get out.

She was a guest who appeared when I finally got the part-time job as a resident singer.

These days, it's rare to find places with resident singers unless you're already somewhat famous, have your own band, and your own music. I cherish this job opportunity, even though there's no pay—two nights a week, and my only source of income is the customers' tips.

Sometimes, along with the tip, I would also receive subtle or rude invitations: someone would invite me for a drink, or someone would hand me a room key to a hotel upstairs.

She simply leaned back in her chair, watching my embarrassment, discomfort, and attempts to avoid the conversation from afar.

At that time, she only had a man's name tattooed on her neck. Perhaps it was her lover's.

“You have a protective layer on you,” she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Is this a metaphor?"

Oh right, that was later, when we were already quite familiar with each other; even though she never tipped me or helped me out, she was still my favorite customer—because she loved listening to the songs I wrote.

She never said that I figured it out myself, which is no easy feat.

I'm a cheerful and outgoing person, I have absolutely no airs about me; she's the one who's always been inside a shell, with a cold face and few words. We've known each other for over half a year, and I still can't find out what she does for a living.

"A person who is shrouded in a veil is not suited to pursue dreams like yours."

As she spoke, she poured herself a glass of wine, without even asking if I wanted one. That's just the kind of person she is; I rarely meet a woman who is completely devoid of consideration for others.

"Because of the cover, neither the world nor fate can see you, so there's no point in continuing to sing."

I don't know how I reacted at the time, but my face probably darkened immediately.

“Did you know that the easiest songs to attract an audience and get positive reviews are those that hover around the average level of the general public?” she said. “Under your songs, most of the comments are things like ‘That’s weird’ or ‘I don’t understand it,’ right? The more sophisticated the music, the fewer listeners there are. Why don’t you write some catchy rhythm songs?”

"Don't I have a shield?" I was already very unhappy. "What, writing some pop songs means you don't have a shield anymore?"

“Yes, that’s right,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were some universally known theorem.

I was very disappointed in her at that time.

It took me a lot of effort to let go of my prejudice against her—unless your lover is dead, tattooing your lover's name on your body is really tacky—and become friends with her; I never expected that she, who clearly likes my songs, could still say such boring things.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “You’d better not come home too late.”

It took all the politeness and restraint I've maintained for the past twenty-one years to keep from saying the sarcastic second half of my sentence—"so as not to make your boyfriend angry."

“I know how to remove the cover,”

After I stood up and took a couple of steps, I heard her say softly.

Music is my life, but that night, those words, were the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in the world. I am just a singer; she is the only siren I have ever seen in my entire life.

"I know how to make you famous."

I turned around and looked at her, and before I knew it, I had slumped back down next to her.

...But I didn't believe a word she said afterward; I thought she had mental problems.

Do only people with mental problems like my songs? It's really disheartening.

“I don’t need you to believe me, just do as I say,” she whispered into the phone. Her voice was like a frozen knife, cutting through an underground river, cutting through the heavy breathing of the other girls in the attic, right next to my ear.

"At 11 p.m. on June 19th, go to the W Hotel lobby bar and order a drink. You'll find a piano there." So what? Am I supposed to spend several days' worth of dinner money on a drink just to see a piano?
“You’re a young and beautiful woman,” she said, sounding a little impatient. “You’re also a guest. If you say you want to play a piece, they won’t stop you.”

She said, "Sing your favorite song."

When I am awakened, I will sink to the bottom of the sea and never see the light of day again.

With the mindset of "it'll only cost the price of a drink if I give it a try" and "not cooperating with a mental patient might cause more trouble later," I put on my best clothes, sat down at the piano in the W Hotel, and softly hummed my most prized piece.

As long as there is music, as long as I can sing, I will forget about my cheap underwear (three pairs for five yuan), forget about next month's credit card bill, and forget about the distance between me and the people in this hotel.

That is my only master in the world; I love it, I am tormented by it, I bow down in submission. I am willing to pay any price, to make a million deals with the devil, to invade, drown, and strangle the mediocrity of this world with my music.

I was awakened by the applause.

Only one person was clapping, and they stopped quickly.

He asked me a few questions, handed me a business card, and said he would like to hear more of my music.

When I am awakened, I will sink to the bottom of the sea and never see the light of day again.

"How did you know that producer was at the W Hotel? How did you know he wanted to do a different kind of project? And it actually suits my taste!"

I was incredibly excited, constantly questioning her and even using up the balance I'd painstakingly freed up on my credit card to treat her to drinks. "Have you heard any other industry gossip?"

“There’s no news at all,” she said. “Aren’t you worried you won’t be able to make it on your own?”

She was right.

I finally got to the door, but the difficulties I encountered later were things I never even imagined before.

I tried to subtly probe her a few more times, but I found that I couldn't get anything out of her. Instead, I would occasionally get hurt by her words, such as, "Is this the kind of song you've been trying so hard to write?"

“Of course not,” I argued.

We hadn't seen each other for a long time by then, and I would occasionally send her a text message to say hello; she never replied.

She only answers my calls; she's really strange.

"But the contract is about to expire. If I want to renew it with the company, I need to make some adjustments in my direction... You know, in this day and age, if I don't get help and just release the song without any marketing or promotion, I'll just fade into obscurity."

There are no more fairy tales like "good wine needs no bush" in this world.

No matter what kind of work it is, as long as there are enough praises, enough people will believe that it is good enough—most people's taste and thinking need to be done by someone else.

"Didn't you already make a lot of concessions? Your song wasn't even released, was it?"

The record company felt that the lyrics were too abstract and the melody was not catchy. Some people in the company even criticized it, saying that it was boring and incomprehensible, and that after listening to one line, they didn't know where the next line was going.

It's impossible not to feel sad after hearing this.

I really wanted to kill that person.

They signed me because my style is different, but now they want me to follow the style of Billboard's top ten hits... Isn't that strange?

“I just wanted you to give me some advice,” I sighed. “The reason I got signed was all thanks to you…”

“I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “You can’t even uphold your own music, so don’t come to me. I just happened to learn about a key point.”

It seems she still won't tell me the truth.

The "critical juncture of fate," the "transactions with residents"... it's like a plot from a novel.

She probably just happened to know the producer's whereabouts and asked me to try my luck.

I hung up the phone.

Although the phone call ended, her words lingered, turning my mind into a haunted house.

I guess I still can't bring myself to cut my feet to fit the shoes.

Singing would mean being murdered by the world... I'd rather buy a Greyhound bus ticket back to my hometown.

I found the producer who signed me and pleaded with him repeatedly; by some miracle, he agreed to let me finish the song that I sang in front of the hotel piano at the end of my contract.

When I am awakened, I will sink to the bottom of the sea and never see the light of day again.

A new song has been released.

It's just a single, no album, nothing to look forward to.

That was in the middle of 2019; by the second half of the year, I had become the hottest new female singer in the world.

...If you can make it in Blackmore City, you will be invincible in the world.

The world flocked to me, holding flowers, lights, and microphones, and for a long time, I forgot about the woman named Mercury.

(End of this chapter)