Time's Up

"The clock that traverses time's canvas begins to move in reverse..."

Ye Shuang was playing Jay Chou's "Clockwork Backwards," strumming the guitar as he sang. His voice quickly drew the attention of other customers in the guitar shop, their gazes turning toward him—fragments of light scattered over Ye Shuang, casting a hazy glow around him as he sang, effortlessly becoming the focal point of the room.

The sound also caught the attention of a figure who had just entered the shop—a tall woman in an expensive long dress, her lips painted a vivid red behind dark sunglasses.

Zhao Mengyao was in a foul mood today.

It wasn’t just the mess at the company or the fact that the management team was utterly useless—all flashy PowerPoint warriors, each better at boasting than the last, yet utterly incompetent when it came to actual work. They had nearly dragged the company into a PR disaster.

And to think she had trusted those managers who had sworn up and down they could handle it.

The thought made her blood boil, keeping her awake all night. Zhao Mengyao even found it strange—how had Ye Shuang managed to steer the company to success with these deadweights? Why could he do it, but she couldn’t?

She had assumed running the company would be easy, given how capable her team supposedly was. Ye Shuang’s role had seemed like nothing more than a finishing touch—so why had her father valued him so much? Why had he insisted on personally trying to win him back?

Now that she was at the helm, she realized just how useless some of these people were. Some didn’t even know the most basic procedures, coasting along without a care.

A memory suddenly surfaced—Ye Shuang’s hesitant voice from one of their past conversations:

"Mengyao, I think… the company’s management and some of its systems need reform." His expression had been uneasy, but he’d spoken up anyway.

"Ye Shuang, not this again. The management team is all family—elite returnees from abroad, every one of them talented. Do you really think our own people would sabotage us? Must you always stir up trouble when there’s nothing to do? Is overseeing the company really that hard for you?"

"If you’re so bored, go get my bags serviced. Stop wasting time on these ridiculous ideas. You’re exhausting."

With a quiet sigh, he had simply smiled faintly and said, "Alright…"

Snapping back to the present, Zhao Mengyao wandered through the music store, her irritation mounting as thoughts of Ye Shuang resurfaced. "Forget it. No point dwelling on the past… I’ll just buy a piano for my nephew’s birthday. At least that’ll shut him up."

"What’s so great about a stupid piano anyway?"

"Returning to the time where I loved you…"

A familiar voice nearby made Zhao Mengyao pause mid-step, her stiletto heels clicking to a halt. Almost instinctively, she turned and walked into the guitar shop.

Her gaze landed on a man seated not far away, cradling a guitar as he strummed and sang softly. His voice wasn’t particularly powerful, but it carried effortlessly through the room.

It wasn’t flawless, but something about it resonated deeply.

Beside him stood a girl—ethereal in her delicate beauty, listening intently. Their occasional exchanged glances spoke volumes, as if they shared countless untold stories.

Huh. Not bad. Who’s singing?

When Zhao Mengyao took a closer look at the guitarist, her breath hitched.

Why is he here?

Why is he singing for someone else?

Seeing Ye Shuang perform like this for another girl sent an uncomfortable pang through her chest.

Seriously? Even after the breakup, you’re living it up, huh?

First Chen Qin, now this pretty little thing. How delightful for you.

The longer she watched, the more irritated she became—especially at the sight of Bai Yuyou’s rapt attention, her expression one of pure admiration. It felt like watching someone covet something she had discarded.

As the song ended, scattered applause broke out, including from the shop assistant.

"A bit rusty," Ye Shuang said with a chuckle.

The assistant grinned. "Sir, you sounded amazing."

Ye Shuang turned to Bai Yuyou. "With the guitar, singing along helps. Just playing alone doesn’t move people as easily."

Still, he didn’t think the guitar suited her—she wasn’t the type to sing, nor was she likely to join a band.

But Bai Yuyou tugged at his sleeve, her usually expressionless face tilting up with rare intensity. "One more… song."

Her stray strand of hair swayed, eyes bright with fascination.

"Ah… we’re here to buy you an instrument, remember? You like it that much?" Ye Shuang laughed, a little taken aback. Back when he used to play for Zhao Mengyao, she’d always complained it sounded awful—he’d never had much confidence in his skills.

Bai Yuyou gave a small nod. "Like it… want to hear more."

After a moment’s thought, Ye Shuang glanced at the assistant, who immediately offered, "Sir, feel free to play a few more. Would you like a higher-end guitar?"

"No need, this one’s fine."

Guitar shops usually had demo instruments—some cheap, some decently priced. The really expensive ones stayed locked away, but the assistant, impressed by Ye Shuang’s singing, was happy to let him try better models.

"If we’re doing another, how about a Cantonese song?" Ye Shuang decided on "Enough" by Hacken Lee, one of his favorites. The singer wasn’t as well-known outside the region, but here, he was legendary.

With a soft smile at Bai Yuyou, he began strumming again.

"Someone like me…"

"Perhaps too forced in my pursuits…"

…

"Clear now—you never hinted. It was all my delusion."

This song unleashed the full depth of Ye Shuang’s voice, his gentle strumming weaving a story with every note.

Unconsciously, the listeners were drawn in. And in one fleeting glance, Ye Shuang spotted a familiar figure among the sparse crowd—

Even behind sunglasses, he recognized her instantly.

Zhao Mengyao stiffened slightly when their eyes met but forced herself to stay composed.

Yet Ye Shuang felt nothing. Only a quiet release. With a serene smile, he turned back to Bai Yuyou and sang the climactic line—

"Enough. Time to let go."

The words hung in the air, a final farewell—to the past, to the woman standing across the room, and to all the lingering regrets he once carried.