A song called "The You of the Past" has prompted the entire internet to beg me not to leav

As lunchtime approached, Lin Yan, carrying two boxes of sliced ​​mutton and several bottles of aged Moutai, followed Shen Qingqiu into the courtyard, leading his dog.

In the courtyard, Shen Zhenbang was leaning back in a rattan chair, wearing reading glasses and holding a newspaper.

His brows were furrowed into an unyielding knot.

The radio was playing a slightly noisy Peking Opera aria sung by an old male character, its soft, labored tones conveying the vicissitudes of time.

As one of the top professors of Chinese classical studies and a leading figure in history in China, Shen Zhenbang possessed a strong sense of integrity and character as a scholar.

Back at the Bird's Nest concert, Lin Yan finally won over this old-fashioned father-in-law with his song "Where Has the Time Gone".

"Dad," Shen Qingqiu stepped forward and called out softly.

Shen Zhenbang put down his newspaper, looked up and saw his daughter and son-in-law. His expression softened slightly, but the worry between his brows was still there.

"You're here." He stood up, glanced at the wine in Lin Yan's hand, and shook his head. "Don't bring these expensive things when you come to my house in the future. It's just a casual meal."

"I just bought this on a whim, so I can have a couple of drinks with you."

Lin Yan handed the things to his mother-in-law, Li Wan, who came out to greet him, and then, as if they were old friends, pulled over a small stool and sat down next to Shen Zhenbang.

Li Wan smiled and took the things: "Qingqiu, come with me into the kitchen to get the dishes. Let the two of them chat for a while."

Shen Qingqiu glanced at Lin Yan, giving him a "behave yourself" look, then turned and went inside.

Only the father-in-law and son-in-law, along with a dog sniffing around, remained in the courtyard.

Listening to the opera on the radio, Lin Yan casually remarked, "The old male role in the Yu school is sung absolutely wonderfully. Dad, your brow is so furrowed today, it could trap a fly. What's bothering you?"

Upon hearing this, Shen Zhenbang took off his reading glasses, rubbed his temples, and let out a long sigh.

He handed the newspaper to Lin Yan, pointing to a news section in the corner.

The Xinghai Liyuan Grand Theatre, due to poor management, will officially close at the end of next month. A century-old tradition, now without successors.

Lin Yan glanced at the title and understood about 70-80% of it.

"Yesterday afternoon, a few old friends from the city, along with Director Wang from the Peking Opera Troupe, gathered together for tea." Shen Zhenbang's voice was somewhat hoarse, revealing a deep sense of helplessness.

"The old curator was over eighty years old. He held my hand, and tears streamed down his face."

"Our Chinese culture has a history of five thousand years. The essence left by our ancestors—now, besides us old folks nearing our graves, how many young people are willing to listen?"

Shen Zhenbang pointed at the radio, his fingers trembling slightly uncontrollably.

"Young people these days are obsessed with foreign electronic music and K-pop, or just humming nonsensical pop songs. Traditional opera? In their eyes, that's outdated garbage."

"Director Wang said that several female lead and male martial arts performers with solid basic skills in the theater couldn't stand the fixed monthly salary of 3,000 yuan and resigned to become ride-hailing drivers and food delivery drivers. This opera has been lost."

Shen Zhenbang became increasingly distressed as he spoke, his eyes reddening.

As someone who has dedicated my life to studying traditional Chinese culture, witnessing traditional culture being abandoned by the times is a painful experience, more so than having my flesh torn apart.

Lin Yan sat on the stool and listened in silence.

He actually understood his father-in-law's pessimism. In this era of short videos where a viral moment happens every three seconds, traditional opera, which requires time and appreciation, simply can't compete with fast food.

But while he could understand, Lin Yan, as a highly self-disciplined son-in-law who lived off his wife, absolutely could not stand by and watch his father-in-law be so depressed.

If the father-in-law is unhappy, the wife will be unhappy; if the wife is unhappy, how can Lin Yan play games and be a couch potato at night?

"Dad." Lin Yan slowly turned off the radio.

Shen Zhenbang frowned at him: "Why did you lock it up?"

"Not many people will listen to this anyway; it only adds to the sadness." Lin Yan stood up and dusted off his hands.

"Actually, the situation with traditional opera isn't as pessimistic as you think. Young people don't like listening to it not because traditional opera is bad, but because its packaging hasn't kept up with the times."

Shen Zhenbang was taken aback for a moment, then smiled wryly: "Packaging? How do you package it? Traditional opera is about setting the bar and cultivating a deep understanding of its art. Are you suggesting we add an electric guitar and a drum set? That's ridiculous!"

"Who says an electric guitar can't be used to accompany traditional opera?" Lin Yan's lips curled into a smile, his eyes revealing a hint of laziness, yet exuding absolute confidence.

He turned around and strode into Shen Zhenbang's study.

Shen Zhenbang followed him in, completely bewildered. Shen Qingqiu, who had just come out of the kitchen carrying a plate of sweet and sour pork ribs, also curiously came over.

In the study.

Lin Yan pulled open Shen Zhenbang's desk drawer, took out a wolf-hair brush, and casually pulled over a sheet of Xuan paper and laid it flat on the table.

He was too lazy to grind the ink, so he simply unscrewed the bottle of Hero brand black ink on the table and dipped his brush in the thick ink.

"Lin Yan, what are you doing?" Shen Zhenbang asked with some concern. "That's the Xuan paper I usually use for practicing calligraphy."

Lin Yan did not reply.

He quickly recalled in his mind that masterpiece from his previous life, which perfectly blended ancient style with opera singing, once swept the music charts and attracted countless official blue V accounts to retweet it.

The brushstrokes flowed smoothly, like clouds and water.

Without thinking or pausing, the ink spread rapidly across the rice paper.

Shen Qingqiu carried the plate to the table. She glanced at the poem, and her smiling eyes froze instantly, unable to look away.

Shen Zhenbang also put on his reading glasses and looked closer, but as soon as he looked, the old professor's gaze was suddenly fixed on the paper, and his breathing became heavy.

[Accustomed to infusing all emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness—into their performances]

What does it matter if the lyrics are sung out? White bones and green ashes are all me.

"This..." Shen Zhenbang's Adam's apple bobbed violently, and his withered fingers gripped the edge of the mahogany table tightly.

These two lines of poetry are like a knife, dissecting the desolation and loneliness of a Peking Opera performer's life!

Lin Yan flipped his wrist, and the brush moved like a dragon, making a soft rustling sound on the paper.

In this chaotic world, we drift like duckweed, watching the flames of war engulf our land.

Though my position is humble, I dare not forget my duty to the nation, even if no one knows me.

When the seven characters "Though lowly in rank, I dare not forget my duty to the country" were written heavily on the paper, it was as if a thunderclap had exploded in Shen Zhenbang's mind.

He felt as if he had been struck by lightning.

This is a masterpiece derived from Lu You's poems!

Lin Yan casually picked it up and placed it here, directly elevating the original small-scale scope of playing with typhoons and romance to an epic height of national righteousness and national integrity!

Lin Yan's brushstrokes suddenly quickened, and his handwriting became wild and unrestrained.

The audience members walked by, and the familiar colors faded away.

On stage, someone sang a heartbreaking farewell song.

The word "love" is hard to write; she sings it with blood.

[As the curtain rises and falls, who remains the guest?]

"What beautiful words...timeless masterpieces!"

Shen Zhenbang's voice trembled with excitement, his hands gripping the table tightly, not daring to even blink.

As a master of Chinese classical studies, he knew all too well how terrifying the depth and artistic conception contained in those few words could be!

In just two minutes, a complete musical score appeared on the paper.

Lin Yan casually put down his brush and pointed to the top of the Xuan paper, where he had just written two powerful characters.

The Red-Haired Girl.

"Dad, this song is a small gift from me to you, and also to those veteran artists." Lin Yan took out a tissue to wipe his hands, his tone as calm as if he had just cut a plate of mutton.

"It not only has the most catchy melodies of pop music, but the chorus is sung entirely in the most authentic Peking opera style."

Lin Yan chuckled as he looked at his father-in-law, who was completely stunned.

"Just you wait and see. By tomorrow at the latest, this song will have all the young people in China obediently back to their chairs in the theater."