The ridges of the Qinling Mountains loomed faintly in the morning mist like a slumbering dragon. On this early summer morning, the dew was heavy, and the air was filled with the fresh scent of earth and bamboo leaves. Lin Chen walked along the slippery mountain path, the worn-out bamboo basket on his back swaying gently with his exceptionally steady steps. His cloth shoes were already soaked through by the dew on the grass, but he was oblivious, his entire mind immersed in the melody he had finished writing last night. His lips moved slightly as he hummed softly; the notes, like living sprites, danced in the quiet valley.
"A-Chen! Off to gather herbs for your mother again?" A booming greeting shattered the mountain's tranquility.
Village Chief Li Bo stood on the ridge, a hoe on his shoulder, a simple, honest smile on his bronzed face.
Lin Chen snapped out of his musical world, stopped humming, and offered his usual, slightly shy smile. "Morning, Li Bo. Yes. And also... to find some inspiration in the mountains."
"Inspiration?" Li Bo frowned in confusion and shook his head. "The things you educated folks say, I just don't get it. But," he changed his tone, giving a thumbs-up, "your singing is really something! Better than all those people warbling on TV! If you ever make it on television someday, the whole village will cheer for you!"
Lin Chen smiled but didn't reply, merely nodding politely before continuing deeper into the mountains. Television? That was a concept as distant as the stars. For him, the most important thing right now was the undisturbed wilderness ahead, where he had his most loyal audience—the entire silent, embracing forest.
His destination was a pool beneath a waterfall. Following the winding path, the sound of water gradually grew from a faint whisper to a roaring symphony. Passing through the final stretch of bamboo forest, the view suddenly opened up. A silvery ribbon of waterfall cascaded down from a cliff dozens of meters high, crashing into the emerald green pool below, throwing up a mist that refracted the morning sun into small rainbows. Beside the pool lay a huge, water-smoothed rock—Lin Chen's "stage."
He set down his basket, deftly took out a few freshly picked herbs, carefully washed the soil from their roots in the pool, and gently placed them in the basket's bottom, lined with damp cloth. This done, he took a deep breath, as if drawing all the mountain's pristine energy into his lungs, then nimbly leaped onto the large rock.
Closing his eyes, the world consisted only of the waterfall's roar, the rustle of wind through the bamboo, and the clear calls of unseen birds. He spread his arms as if to embrace this piece of heaven and earth. Then, he began to sing.
There were no lyrics, only melody. It was his own composition, "The Mountain's Query." His clear, melodious voice, seemingly possessing its own natural reverb, pierced through the sound of the water, lingering in the valley, perfectly blending with the sounds of nature. His voice was clean, pure, carrying an untamed power that struck directly at the heart. In the song, there was reverence for the mountains, contemplation of life, and a trace of loneliness and yearning, barely perceptible, hidden within his young chest.
Not far away, an old herb gatherer working on a steep slope stopped, leaning against a tree trunk, tilting his head to listen, a look of enjoyment spreading across his wrinkled face. At the mountain's base, several farmers working in the fields unconsciously straightened their backs, shading their eyes with their hands as they gazed toward the source of the sound. Even the usually noisy children quieted down, their dark, bright eyes wide open, catching every drifting note.
This was Lin Chen's daily life. In his nineteen years, he had almost never left these mountains. The village was remote, transportation difficult, information scarce. His world was simple: his bedridden mother who needed constant medicine, his father working hard to support the family in a nearby town, a house full of old books and music tapes, and, this forest that gave him endless solace and inspiration.
As the last note faded, its echo lingering, Lin Chen slowly opened his eyes, the passion of his performance still lingering in them. He let out a satisfied sigh and jumped down from the rock. Music was the outlet for his soul. With his mother frail and him the only child, he had been more mature than his peers since childhood, taking on most of the housework and farm work. Only when singing could he temporarily forget the burdens of life and feel a sense of pure, soaring freedom.
He pulled an old, cracked smartphone from his inside pocket. This was a second-hand phone his father had bought him with his first month's wages from migrant work—his limited connection to the outside world. He deftly opened an audio recording app and sang the segment of "The Mountain's Query" again a cappella, saving it. Then, he opened an app for a music original platform named "Echo."
This platform was a treasure he had stumbled upon. Here, countless people who loved music like him uploaded their works, regardless of profession or background, meeting through sound alone. His account, "Mountain Stream Morning Sound," already had a few thousand followers—a decent achievement for someone who only uploaded a cappella recordings and simple guitar-accompanied original songs.
He uploaded the newly recorded segment of "The Mountain's Query," adding a caption: "The Mountain's Query at dawn. The dew is the audience, the wind is the accompaniment."
Soon, a few comments popped up:
* "Heavenly voice! I feel my soul is cleansed every time I listen to your songs!"
* "What a god-like voice! We need the full version!"
* "This feels ten thousand times better than all those auto-tuned, generic pop songs on the charts right now!"
* "Any thoughts on joining a talent show, bro? It's a loss for the Chinese music industry if you don't debut!"
Lin Chen's gaze lingered on the words "talent show" for a moment before he smiled wryly to himself. A talent show? That belonged to another world. He had heard of those shows—the dazzling lights, the magnificent stages, the judges being big stars you only saw on TV. And him? He was just a mountain kid who had never even been to the provincial capital. He put the phone back in his pocket, shouldered his basket, and prepared to head home. His mother's medicine couldn't run out; he needed to find a few more herbs on the back mountain before the sun grew too fierce.