Chapter Fifteen: Wait a Moment, Sir, What You Asked For

The battered wooden guitar in her father’s hands still quivered, its hoarse notes lingering in the dim atmosphere of the bar. A gust swept in from outside, making the dusty portrait of a noblewoman on the wall sway and tap against the plaster.

Ren Qian and Wen Run walked up to the bar, standing silently behind the middle-aged man. He simply leaned his guitar against the chair, not sparing them a single glance.

A man with stories upon him naturally carries a sense of weariness, a detachment from the world. He possessed undeniable talent—no wonder he seemed at odds with his surroundings. Immersed in his own world, his cheeks flushed, perhaps savoring the aftertaste of the song he’d just sung, pleased with its mood and meaning. Suddenly swept up by a sense of heroism, he threw back his head and downed another cup of liquor, belched contentedly, and poured himself more.

“Dad…” Wen Run tried to approach and stop him, calling softly several times, but the man remained unmoved. He slouched at the bar like a lost soul.

Ren Qian caught her hand, gesturing for her to wait. Perhaps this was the best way for a son-in-law to meet his future father-in-law for the first time: not with confrontation, but through music—a meeting of artistry, of lives marked by hardship, of the question of who should be Wen Run’s legal guardian.

He walked up behind his father-in-law, picked up the guitar. Only then did the man’s ear twitch, but he didn’t turn, merely kept drinking.

Really now, did he have to be so aloof?

Ren Qian felt awkward. Even as he made noise picking up the guitar, dragging over a stool, the man remained unmoved, as if the world contained nothing but his glass.

Then let the song draw your attention. He refused to believe this song would leave the man unmoved. He sat, adopting the perfect posture for playing.

Handsome, cool, and stylish.

He strummed, testing the strings. Ren Qian’s expression grew focused as his fingers began to move, the melody flowing softly, like a mountain stream about to dry up.

Behind him, the nurse stood dumbfounded. She might not know much about music, but she realized instantly—the prelude was identical to the one her father had just played. The same languid decadence, conjuring the bar’s ambiance.

But how had Ren Qian done it? To recreate a song after hearing it just once was no simple feat. He had to identify the melody, translate it to guitar tablature, and commit it to memory—any mistake would be glaringly obvious.

Yet Ren Qian played with such skill, without a hint of error.

“Wait a moment, sir—would you like to switch to Sprite instead?”

At the first line, Wen Run’s father seemed jolted by lightning. He shot upright, knocking over his empty glass, and stared at Ren Qian; all traces of dejection vanished from his face.

“I don’t really know you,
But seeing you drink like this,
I can’t help but worry.
Think about it—she doesn’t love you.
Why waste your energy?
Is it worth it,
Being abandoned like this? I don’t think so…”

Here, the lyrics echoed a reply to a segment in “Last…Order.” It seemed a response, but was in fact a subtle awakening.

It worked—Wen Run’s father was visibly moved, listening with rapt attention, afraid to miss a single note, his fingers tapping the bar lightly.

In two years, Wen Run had never seen her father like this. She glanced at Ren Qian, who, guitar in hand, looked strikingly refined in the bar’s dim light.

In that instant, she felt tears prick her eyes. Her father, though defeated by life, still harbored a deep fatherly love—just sometimes, he was too lost in his own failures to help himself. And her boyfriend had come all the way to the outskirts, trying to persuade her father for her sake, and seemed to be succeeding… With a father and a husband like this, what regrets could anyone have?

“Hmm… ahem…”

Ren Qian paused, signaling there was more to come, and indeed—

As the guitar’s melody changed, the bar’s door creaked open. A blast of cold air chilled the hard-won warmth inside. Entering was an elegant young woman, wrapped tightly in a brown overcoat. She wore no makeup, only a grandmotherly knitted hat, yet her beauty radiated heat. Two bodyguards stood behind her.

Her presence lit up the humble bar, but no one turned to look. Wen Run gazed dreamily at Ren Qian, her father kept tapping out the rhythm, and Ren Qian focused wholly on the song.

“If I may be frank,
Each night I stand here until three,
Not wanting to smoke,
Yet breathing in secondhand smoke,
Closing up nightly,
Going home alone,
It never changes.
For six years, day after day,
Hearing patrons mutter and complain,
Their grievances fill the air,
Even as I tire of it,
I still smile and entertain each one,
Easygoing as I am—rare, isn’t it?”

The lyrics were gentle, conversational, unvarnished. The waiter didn’t try to talk the drunken patron down, but instead feigned a little self-pity, confessing his own dissatisfaction with the job.

He hated smoke, yet breathed it nightly. Wanted peace, but endured drunken chatter every shift. Life’s petty annoyances wore on him.

But the beauty lay in how, while complaining, the waiter slipped in subtle persuasion—gradually, gently, never touching the patron’s wounds or pride, yet encouraging him to let go.

“Easygoing as I am—rare, isn’t it?” There was a touch of humor in the resignation. Perhaps the unlucky drunk could only smile wryly at that, understanding the shared plight of the world. When kindred spirits speak, perhaps the words sink in.

“No need to be rich to be happy,
She never understood that,
Blamed me for still working odd jobs,
Wouldn’t share hardship with me.
From then on, I worked two jobs,
Believing these hands would prove their worth.
Every drink here was hard-earned,
But tonight, have one on the house.”

Then the waiter reached the heart of the matter. He had a girlfriend too—he was another down-and-out man, disliked by his lover. But he didn’t give up or blame her for being materialistic. Instead, from that day, he worked two jobs, saving double.

He believed that everyone has their purpose, and one day he’d live the life he wanted. So, though he’d hated working in bars, he fell in love with bartending. He poured his heart into every cocktail, hoping to win customers’ satisfaction and loyalty.

What an inspiring soul. His words persuaded in gentle, winding turns, blending reason into the plainest narrative, sparing his listener from a torrent of preaching. With a smile, hearts opened.

At that moment, a trace of a smile emerged on Wen Run’s father’s face, almost smoothing away the fifteen years of wrinkles and gloom. By the door, the young woman also smiled, her bright eyes softly attentive.

“If I may be frank, each night I stand here till three,
Not wanting to smoke, yet breathing in secondhand smoke,
Closing up nightly, going home alone, never changing.
For six years, day after day, hearing patrons complain,
Their grievances thunderous—though I grow weary,
I still smile, earning a little more each time,
So that next year, I can open a flower shop,
So I can live anew…”

The final line was the most striking: “So that next year, I can open a flower shop.”

The song’s somber tone vanished, replaced by a profusion of blossoming flowers. Who could have guessed that amid all the noise and neon, the waiter’s dream was simply to open a flower shop?

At this moment, even the most downtrodden soul here would feel a lotus bloom in their heart.

Applause thundered. Wen Run’s father jumped to his feet, clapping loudly and urgently. Ren Qian nervously set down the guitar—no matter how he looked at it, this future father-in-law seemed to be applauding through gritted teeth.