He unexpectedly becomes a father at the start of his life, and the mother of his child is a national

Upon hearing this, Lin Caiwei couldn't help but turn and glance at Chen Hao.

Isn't this song about himself?

Not long ago, he was delivering food; now he is a bestselling author, a top musician, and a multi-millionaire investor.

She didn't know how he had gotten through these days, but to be able to write such lyrics, he must have had a lot to say.

"The chorus of this song is very powerful," Chen Hao said, pointing to the waveform on the screen.

"The vocal range in the chorus is in your most comfortable vocal break zone, so you can hit it with your true voice without any problem."

"Furthermore, I've left room for harmonies, so you can coordinate with the harmonies coach at the concert. The second chorus can be layered a third higher, creating a particularly full and satisfying effect."

He was looking at the screen as he spoke, his finger tracing names on the waveform.

Lin Caiwei looked at his profile and noticed that he was a completely different person when he talked about music. He spoke faster, made more gestures, and his eyes had a focused light.

She nodded: "It's perfect for the closing performance; it'll really liven up the atmosphere."

Chen Hao hummed in agreement and clicked on the third song.

"Flowers of Dust"

The prelude is played by the guzheng and the flute.

The guzheng plays harmonics, clear and melodious; the flute plays in the low register, sounding like a sob.

Lin Caiwei knew immediately that this was not the kind of song that was simply labeled as having a Chinese style.

The arrangement wasn't overly "old-fashioned" or used those overused pentatonic scale patterns. Instead, it naturally blended folk music and pop music together.

The bass drum is soft, the piano is supported by a thin layer of strings, and the guzheng and flute float on top of it, like the blank space in a traditional Chinese ink painting.

"I bloomed a flower in the dust, and no one knows my name..."

Lin Caiwei's eyes suddenly felt hot.

This song is written with such exquisite detail.

She understood the metaphor in the lyrics—it was written for all those who are unseen yet still strive to bloom.

She recalled her early years in the industry, doing commercial performances, recording variety shows, and releasing albums, but she never really became famous.

At that time, she was also in the dust, and she also bloomed a small flower. Indeed, no one knew her name.

She wondered if Chen Hao was thinking of himself when he wrote this song.

During his days delivering food, braving wind and rain, did anyone ever tell him to "give up"?

Sisi listened very attentively this time.

The little guy stopped clapping and talking, just lay there with his little chin resting on the table.

When the song ended, she said earnestly, "Dad, there are flowers in this song, and Sisi likes flowers."

Chen Hao patted her head: "Then this song is for Sisi."

"Really?" Sisi's eyes lit up.

"real."

"Can Sisi give it to the children to listen to?"

"You can when you grow up."

Sisi was very satisfied with the answer, nodded in satisfaction, and continued to wait for the next song.

The fourth poem is titled "Clear Sky and Gentle Breeze".

The intro is an acoustic guitar, simple and clean, like a gentle breeze on a summer afternoon.

It's not the fancy fingerstyle guitar; it's just the simplest arpeggios, played one note at a time, unhurriedly.

The melody is smooth, and the chorus has a reassuring power, like someone whispering in your ear, "It's okay, I'm here."

"You are the clear sky, the gentle breeze, and the end of all my dreams..."

Lin Caiwei blushed slightly.

She knew, of course, that this was just a song written by Chen Hao, and it might not necessarily be for a specific person.

He is a creator. Creators write about love, about parting, and about many things they have experienced or have not experienced.

But when she heard those lyrics, and heard him sing them in that restrained, gentle voice, she couldn't help but overthink it.

Sisi didn't care about any of that.

The little guy excitedly jumped off the chair, ran to Lin Caiwei, looked up at her, and said:

"Mom, this song is for you! The clear sky is like Mom, and the gentle breeze is like Mom too!"

"Why?" Lin Caiwei asked.

"Because Mommy's name has the character 'Wei' in it, and 'Wei' means wind!" Sisi explained seriously, drawing a circle in the air with her little finger.

"Dad told Sisi!"

Lin Caiwei paused for a moment and looked at Chen Hao.

Chen Hao rubbed his nose, his eyes fixed on the computer screen: "I was just saying it casually to Sisi..."

Lin Caiwei remained silent.

She lowered her head, pulled Sisi onto her lap, and buried her face in her daughter's soft hair.

Sisi, confused, squirmed and cried out, "Mommy, it itches!"

Lin Caiwei released her, a slight smile playing on her lips, which Chen Hao didn't see.

The fifth poem is titled "Letter from Afar".

The slow tempo carries the theme of parting and reunion.

The prelude features a piano and a cello, with the piano in the high register and the cello in the low register, one high and one low, like two people having a conversation.

The tone is calm, with a faint sadness, but not the kind of heart-wrenching pain, but rather the tranquility that comes with the passage of time.

"I received your letter; the handwriting is still the same as before..."

As Lin Caiwei listened, many images flashed through her mind.

She recalled leaving home at eighteen, dragging her suitcase, standing at the long-distance bus station, when her mother slipped an envelope of money into her bag.

There were no cell phones back then, so when she went to the city, she wrote letters home.

Later, our house was demolished, the old house was gone, and we don't know where those letters went.

She hadn't received a handwritten letter in a long time.

Nowadays, everyone sends WeChat messages and makes video calls, which is quick and convenient, but it lacks the sense of ritual of opening an envelope and unfolding a letter.

But she understood the longing expressed in the lyrics.

"This song..." she paused, "is exceptionally well-written."

Chen Hao nodded: "This piece is more narrative. The worst thing about a narrative song is that it's written too full and easily becomes a rambling account."

I deleted three versions of the lyrics, and in the final draft, only four lines of the verse were left, and the lyrics were changed once when the chorus repeated them.

It's suitable as a track in an album that evokes a sense of reflection and contemplation; place it as the third or seventh track.

Lin Caiwei hummed in agreement and said nothing more.

Next is the sixth song.

The seventh poem.

The eighth poem.

Every song amazed Lin Caiwei.

It wasn't the kind of amazing "not bad" feeling, but rather the kind of amazing "how could it be so good?" feeling.

She has been making music for ten years, collaborating with countless creators and receiving countless demos.

Some have good melodies but bad lyrics, some have good lyrics but mediocre arrangements, and some have good concepts but poor execution.

She knows all too well how difficult it is to put together ten good songs on an album.

Chen Hao, on his own, wrote ten poems in just a few days.

Each song is a complete, mature finished product that can be directly recorded in the studio.

When she was halfway through the ninth song, she couldn't help but ask, "What's the name of this song?"

"I haven't decided yet," Chen Hao said.

"When I wrote it, I thought about your voice characteristics. The vocal range is in your most comfortable middle range. The verses do not exceed C, and the chorus goes up to G, which is the transition zone between your true voice and falsetto."

The name is currently empty; you can choose one yourself.