Strong and powerful fingers danced through the orange-red glow, each pluck bringing forth a blush of red, like a pool of water gently swaying, with only faint ripples but no crashing waves. That tenderness, as soft as water, lightly leapt between the guitar strings. Each touch between fingers and strings was like casting a magical spell; each note transformed into a tiny elf with transparent wings, dancing gracefully in the orange-red halo. The specks of light were like countless stars adorning the blood-red sunset into breathtaking beauty.
The sound of the guitar strings drifted in the air, and the boy's warm, mellow voice, like a cello, slowly began to play in the orange-red sunset. "Another summer has come, only to turn and leave again, in Paris or perhaps Rome, but I want to go home (Home), oh…" The boy's humming was so beautiful, like the curling aroma of coffee rising in the sunset, carrying the scent of sunlight after winter's snow — so warm it made one want to cry. "Surrounded by a surging crowd, maybe a million people, but I still feel lonely. I just want to go home, you know how much I miss you."
That whisper-like murmur rippled out from the strings, and time's footsteps stopped entirely in that moment, imprinted into the shape of amber in a sunset so beautiful it stole one's breath, leaving an eternal memory. No deliberate sentimentality, no pretentious arrangement — everything was so simple, so fresh — yet it rang softly in the heart. Even the lazy drawl in the boy's voice felt like a lovely contrail in a clear blue sky, brushing faintly across the nose and eyes, so gentle it seemed to leave no trace, until one realized they had already fallen deep into it.
"I keep every letter I wrote to you, even if it's just a few words, 'I'm fine, baby, and you?' I would send them to you, but I know it's far from enough. My words are so cold and powerless; you should have received so much more."
The boy's singing was so beautiful, painting the changes of the four seasons as if they were poetry and painting, while the guitar strings were the colors — gradually filled in by that warm voice. The silky texture, like red velvet, slowly brushed through the heart. Unknowingly, the dry eyes became moist, and all emotions in the depths of the gaze melted into a feeling called longing, rippling in the pupils again and again, moving the soul.
No one had expected such a performance. They had thought it would only be a song of gratitude offered to an old lady who had been his lifeline. Instead, it was so beautiful that time seemed to stop. All the surrounding noise froze in that moment into still images; the blurred scenes in the mind turned into a swirl of light and shadow. Everything else lost meaning — in everyone's eyes there was only the boy singing softly. That tender voice carried the memory back to the warmth of home.
Warm milk, rich coffee, a steamy bathtub, soft towels, crisp bedsheets, bright sunshine, hearty laughter… The sights of home were painted out bit by bit in the boy's voice, each detail so real and vivid, clearly sketched in the mind, then colored in, then awakened. That indescribable sense of belonging instantly swept over, and the weariness in the mind surged like a tide. The urge to go home made the moisture in the eyes condense into crystal-like tears.
"Another journey, toward another sunny place. I know I am lucky, but I want to go home, I must go home. Let me go home, I am so far from where you are, I have to go home. Let me go home, I've already set out, baby, I've already set out — I want to go home."
That lingering, tender "go home" from the boy awakened everyone's longing for Home — that deep and yearning homesickness condensed into the single plea, "Let me go home," like the faint smoke rising from the prairie and the hazy lights marking the direction of home. After confusion, pain, sorrow, exhaustion, and setbacks, it was what allowed one to find their way again.
Looking at the boy before them — a simple white T-shirt and jeans, paired with sky-blue skate shoes, a blue plaid shirt tied to the guitar bag, medium-length hair falling over his forehead — the sunlight outlined the softness and fragility of his hair while sketching his handsome features in strokes of gold. His refined features were drawn in detail: deep eyes, straight nose, thin soft lips, elf-like ears, a clean and delicate jawline, an expression both reserved and focused. His skin was covered in a faint glow — pure, clear, handsome, radiating infinite charm.
Recalling everything that had just happened — this boy only wanted to go home, yet he was trapped here by circumstances. An accident had halted his steps toward home on the starry Hollywood Boulevard. That helplessness, that yearning, was finely stitched into the melody like embroidery, sketching out a sorrow that could move one to tears. Like poetry, like painting, like song.
Neil Anderson's steps had followed this moving melody all the way here. He had not planned to stop for any street performances — no matter how many people gathered — but the skillful guitar notes had awakened his ears. He could hardly control his curiosity and interest; his steps landed on each note until he arrived, and then he saw this scene before him.
Neil could only see bits and pieces through the thick crowd, but he didn't mind. Rather than watching the singer, he preferred to close his eyes and listen. From this melody, he could hear the singer's heart. This was not just a street performance — it was a call from deep within, a longing for home, affection for loved ones, yearning for reunion, filling every corner of the voice. It shattered people's armor with ease and slipped into the softest part of their hearts.
"I feel like I'm living in someone else's world, as if I'm just wandering outside, even when everything is as I wished. Then I understood why you weren't by my side. Perhaps it was never your intention, but you always trusted me."
"You" — a lover, a family member, a friend — the one who made him feel the warmth of home, the harbor that affirmed his existence. No matter how wide, cold, or cruel the outside world was, there would always be a place that belonged to him. Without "you," no matter how vast the world, there was nowhere to belong. Yet even a meaningless room, because of a dim light waiting for him to return, was given infinite meaning. This feeling was like mist stretching over green mountains and rivers, like a stream winding through deep forests, like sunlight spilling through dense woods — becoming the greatest light in life.
A melody never before heard was gently told in the boy's voice, the golden-dust-like notes of the guitar dancing in the sunset. Meaningless notes, under the command of those hands, arranged themselves into the shape of "home," letting the chemical reaction of emotion seep into the melody and be released like smoke and mist.
It was hard to imagine that a pair of broad and slender fingers could weave such incredible magic upon six guitar strings, each vibration of the strings rippling specks of light through the air, gently resonating with the deepest strings of the heart; hard to imagine that a warm and mellow voice could perform such beautiful music upon the staff, each turn, each soft hum, each lingering note like the thin golden sunlight over a crystal-clear blue sky, falling without the slightest obstruction, leaving one dumbfounded at the perfection of the scene before them.
Neil himself was an underground musician, a rhythm guitarist, with over ten years of mastery over the instrument. Today, he had just finished his street performance on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and was ready to pack up and head home, but he found himself compelled to stop for this performer, compelled to express his admiration for the young man before him. When mood, melody, and lyrics combine perfectly, and are then interpreted through a voice placed with pinpoint accuracy, the passion that bursts forth from such unbelievably skilled performance shines brilliantly.
This was not the excitement of meeting a fellow enthusiast, but the emotion of a music lover touched by an exquisite melody. Neil had only heard the latter half of the song, yet was still moved. He closed his eyes, using only his ears to paint the picture of the melody—everything vivid and lifelike. This was not merely a song, but also a picture, a story, so beautiful that one almost forgot time and space.
"Another winter has come, only to turn and leave again, in Paris or perhaps Rome, I want to go home, you know I miss you so much." The boy's voice, carrying a faint attachment and a light regret, trembled slightly in the air, the long tail notes tracing out a perfect arc. Without realizing it, the tears in the listeners' eyes finally became too heavy, slipping past the control of their lashes. "Let me go home, I've already set out, baby, I've already set out, I want to go home, let me go home, everything will be all right, tonight I will be home, I am on my way home."
Neil kept his eyes closed, yet still felt the wetness gathering there. The long-lasting, jade-like warmth of longing flowed slowly like a murmuring stream, and the yearning for home in his heart burst forth uncontrollably. From his hometown of Stockholm to Los Angeles to chase his musical dreams, only Neil knew the hardships of the journey, but he had never regretted it, for it was his choice. Yet at this moment, Neil only wanted to go home. That tender, restrained "I want to go home" turned the longing in his heart, and the bitterness of that longing, into burning tears that moistened his eyes.
"Tonight I will be home, I am on my way home…" The boy in the crowd used no sentimentality and showed no off-putting technique, only whispered the performance with the purest of voices, yet magnified the emotions in the lyrics to infinity, making the warm heart tremble slightly, almost unable to stop itself from breaking into sobs. Even without crying aloud, simply biting the lower lip and letting the feeling of longing rampage through the heart still seemed to drain every ounce of strength from each person.
The guitar's strings faded in the sunset, smaller and smaller, until they disappeared from the ear, then from the heart. The orange-red sun blazed fiercely at the horizon, sinking slowly from the place where sea and sky met. Such a magnificent scene, set against the moving melody still echoing in the mind, was so beautiful it took one's breath away.
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