Song of Life

After a long day of work, the camp finally came alive.

As night fell, a bonfire was lit in the center of the camp.

People sang and danced, celebrating the return of their water source.

Lu Qianqian, Ji Wushuang, and Chen Lei sat together.

Though they only had simple roasted corn and potatoes to eat, the three of them were completely content.

"Thank you," Ji Wushuang said to her husband.

"No need for that between family," Chen Lei mumbled through a mouthful of corn.

"I'm not leaving this time," he suddenly added.

Ji Wushuang froze.

"I applied for a leave of absence from work. Wherever you stay for a day, I’ll stay for a day."

Chen Lei looked at her, his gaze unwavering.

"I need to see your safety with my own eyes to feel at ease."

Ji Wushuang didn’t reply. Instead, she gently rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.

This woman, who never flinched in the face of danger, now seemed like a child who had finally found a safe harbor.

But Lu Qianqian, watching them, wasn’t moved by the couple’s affection.

Instead, she thought:

"The Horizon Foundation" had just gained another irreplaceable ally.

A week later, life in the camp returned to normal.

Chen Lei unexpectedly became the most popular person there.

Not only did he fix the water pump, but he also repaired the camp’s only tractor and several old diesel generators.

He even began teaching basic mechanical skills to the local youth.

That day, another off-road vehicle rolled into the camp.

This time, the security team didn’t tense up—the car bore the flag of "The Horizon Foundation," along with the emblem of "Summer Sound Records."

The door opened, and a security guard stepped out first.

Then, a young man emerged.

It was Ji Yichen.

Dressed in a black T-shirt and black cargo pants, he carried a massive backpack filled with recording equipment.

And, as always, his worn-out guitar, which he never parted with.

He was thinner and darker than the last time they’d met, but his eyes were just as sharp and aloof.

He saw Lu Qianqian.

Lu Qianqian saw him.

They exchanged a glance.

No polite greetings.

"I’m here," Ji Yichen said.

"Welcome," Lu Qianqian nodded.

Their exchange was simple, yet carried the familiarity of long-separated comrades.

"How’s the situation?" Ji Yichen asked.

"Stable," Lu Qianqian replied.

"Good."

And with that, their conversation ended.

Brief and direct, yet filled with an unspoken understanding no outsider could grasp.

Ji Wushuang and Chen Lei watched from the side.

Curious, Chen Lei whispered to his wife,

"Who’s that guy? Feels... kinda intimidating."

"Another one of Qianqian’s allies," Ji Wushuang answered succinctly.

Ji Yichen’s arrival brought something different to this camp, where survival was the only priority.

He didn’t offer comfort or pity.

Instead, he moved through the camp like a ghost, his recording gear in tow.

He documented the songs of the tribal elders.

He captured the laughter of children playing in the dust.

He recorded the conversations of women drawing water from the well.

And in the dead of night, he even captured the muffled sobs escaping from a tent.

With his microphone, he dissected the joy and pain of this land.

At night, he would sit by the bonfire, strumming his guitar and singing softly.

Not the polished tracks from recording studios in Jingzhou, but melodies he’d heard that very day—local tunes rearranged with his own interpretation.

His voice remained rough and raw, yet it carried a power that pierced straight to the heart.

He sang of parched earth, distant loved ones, endless waiting, and the faint glimmers of hope born from despair.

The camp’s residents didn’t understand his lyrics, but they felt the emotion in the music.

It was a language understood by all.

Gradually, as night fell, Ji Yichen’s bonfire became the gathering spot.

People sat in silence, just listening.

In his songs, the exhaustion and fear of the day seemed to melt away.

Lu Qianqian often joined the crowd.

Watching the man with his guitar, eyes closed as he sang, she remembered their first meeting—when he’d said his music wasn’t meant to be packaged like candy.

Now she understood. His music wasn’t candy. It was coarse, nourishing black bread for the soul.

One night, after finishing her emails to headquarters, Lu Qianqian stepped out of her tent.

She saw Ji Yichen still sitting alone by the dying embers, scribbling in a small notebook.

Moonlight draped over him, casting a silver outline around his figure.

She walked over and sat beside him.

"Not sleeping?"

"No inspiration," Ji Yichen replied without looking up.

"Haven’t you written enough already?"

"Those are just recordings. Not creations." He closed the notebook.

"I’ve captured their pain, their anger, their numbness. But I can’t find the way out."

He turned to Lu Qianqian.

"Your 'Horizon Foundation' gives them water, food, medicine. You’re handing them the tools to survive."

"But then what? When you leave, what happens to them?"

"You’re prolonging their suffering, not ending it."

His words were sharp as a blade. The old Lu Qianqian might have been angered.

But now, she simply met his gaze calmly.

"I can’t end it," she said.

"War, poverty, disease—they’re too big. I can’t fix them alone."

"All I can do is help where I can, within my reach. Let them live. Let them keep a shred of dignity."

"At the very least, so they don’t have to kill for a sip of clean water. Or sell their children for a loaf of bread."

"That’s the only 'way out' I know."

Ji Yichen fell silent, studying her.

There wasn’t a trace of doubt in her expression—only a stubborn clarity, forged by facing reality’s cruelty yet choosing to move forward anyway.

"Your anger has power," Lu Qianqian continued.

"It cuts through lies, wakes people up. Your songs let Jingzhou know what’s happening here. That’s their value."

"But anger alone isn’t enough."

"Here, anger doesn’t turn into water or medicine."

"My work is mundane, practical. Raising funds, securing supplies, delivering aid to those who need it."

"Your work is to remind us—and them—why we do this."

She looked at him, her eyes sincere.

"We’re allies, aren’t we? Fighting the same war. Just from different trenches."

Ji Yichen held her gaze.

Under the moonlight, her eyes shone like stars.

His pride and stubbornness slowly dissolved under that light.

Suddenly, his relentless search for "ultimate meaning" felt hollow compared to her actions.

"I understand," he murmured softly.

He stood up, picked up his guitar, and began strumming the strings once more.

This time, the melody no longer carried only anger and sorrow.

There was something new—a warmth, a quiet determination.

Like a small oil lamp flickering to life in the darkness.

Not dazzling, but bright enough to light the path beneath his feet.