Chapter 10 : The Curtain that Fell in Silence
The world knew his name.
Long Haochen.
A name spoken with reverence in every corner of the globe—boardrooms, red carpets, concert halls, lecture theaters. Already crowned the Music God, the youngest Trillionaire in human history, and founder of an empire that spanned industries, he now stepped into a realm many dared not even dream of.
Cinema.
When Haochen appeared in his first film, the audience didn't just watch—they froze. The screen seemed too small to contain him. His eyes alone could carry a plot. His voice needed no script. Every movement he made, every subtle glance, breathed life into silence. He became not an actor but a mirror to the soul of humankind.
And he didn't stop there.
In just two years, he starred in nine films—each different in style, culture, and language. From ancient Chinese epics to modern Korean dramas, from French noir to historical European tragedies. He spoke fluently in every tongue, adapted to every culture. Critics no longer wrote reviews—they wrote poetry about him.
And the Academy? They made a new award just for him:
"The Crown of Cinema" —to honor not just acting, but transformation itself.
He won it. Of course he did.
But no one saw what he left behind.
Each time he bowed before the camera, his smile grew emptier. In every interview, he thanked the world—but never once mentioned himself. After award shows, he would vanish backstage, never joining the afterparties. His sisters tried to be by his side—they tried. But the higher he rose, the harder it became to reach him.
He no longer lived in their home.
He built a glass palace in the clouds—a tower above the city skyline, unreachable by road, accessible only by a private helipad. Transparent walls, no doors. Only silence and stars.
And within that tower, behind a velvet curtain embroidered by his mother's hands, was a single item:
A black-and-white photo of their family—his parents alive, his sisters all young, his own face barely four years old. His hands held a birthday cake. And behind him, two figures smiled with a love no words could measure.
That was the last photo they took together.
That was the night before the accident.
His sisters missed him. More than they ever said.
Emerald, the youngest of the four, would often sit alone in the music studio he built for them, pretending he might walk in like before and say, "I wrote a song, but it's missing your laugh."
Jade would cook his favorite meals every Saturday, leaving them at his front gate—even though he never once opened it.
Crystal kept sending him scripts with roles she thought he'd enjoy. He never rejected them. He just…never responded.
And Pearl, the eldest, the one who raised them after their parents died…she said nothing. But every week, she sat in the exact spot their mother used to sew—the place where the protective strap was made—and waited for nothing but silence.
One day, a film festival in Vienna invited him to perform a tribute.
He declined.
Not out of pride. But because his heart couldn't bear another standing ovation.
What use was the applause of billions, when the only two people who ever mattered could never clap again?
But then, late one night—past midnight, long after the world slept—he stood before his grand piano once more. The room was dark. Only the faint blue lights from the city below shimmered like distant souls.
And for the first time in six months, he played.
But this time, the melody had no beginning, no end.
It was just…grief.
Grief that sounded like starlight falling.
Grief that clung to the soft thread in his hair the strap his mother once made.
And as he finished the final note, the silence that followed felt like a heartbeat long gone.