Fang Zheng has an erhu, which his uncle Fang Jian bought for him when he was a child.
That erhu was second-hand, old and shabby.
The neck was smoked black, the sound box cracked, the skin used was the lowest-grade snake skin, and the horsehair bow might break with a slight force. The sound it produced was as unpleasant as sawing wood, or like a hoarse throat crying while still trying to shout.
But it was precisely because of that erhu that he was able to enter an art university despite his severe decline in cultural studies.
And he relied on it to make a living for quite a while afterwards.
Now, the one in his hand has a round sound box made of sandalwood, a redwood neck, a python skin, and a long and straight bow with silk strings.
It's expensive, beautifully styled.
Yet, after obtaining it, the genuine joy he once felt was no longer there.
Thanks to years of training, his skills have become mature.
Plucking the strings.
The melodious sound of the erhu echoed.
