After Sophia's childhood act of placing candy on General Huo Qubing's tomb, the moment was uploaded online.
The forums of the time exploded.
Back then, the literary and art scene was dominated by rock-and-roll culture and passionate love songs. The stage was filled with stories of wild romances, of men and women chasing desire in fiery madness.
But Sophia's words—childlike, yet steeped in national history—were something new. For the first time, romance was reinterpreted. It wasn't only about lovers under the moon, but about giving sweetness to the fallen, compassion to history, and beauty to sacrifice.
The effect rippled outward.
Some began to leave cups of wine at Li Bai's monument, in honor of the poet who had lived and died with drink in hand. Others laid flowers at the graves of forgotten heroes. Still others traveled to the borders, leaving cakes for nameless soldiers who had given their lives.
It became a movement.
Yet no matter how far it spread, people could never forget the image of the little girl in the snow, offering candy to a young general who had died centuries ago.
---
Later, at Iron City's Hope Primary School, Sophia's influence was already visible.
In first grade, the students were given another creative assignment. Many brought simple ideas—feeding stray cats, helping parents cook, or planting flowers.
But when Sophia held up her cut newspaper and shared her idea, the teachers were struck silent.
Principal Carter, sitting at the jury table, was the only one to speak after a long pause. His voice trembled with wonder.
"Is there truly a person who is born naturally romantic yet rooted in reality? Beauty is fleeting, but she has brought it into the world."
That statement stayed with him for years.
---
Now, decades later, Principal Carter sat in the audience of the massive stadium, watching the replay of those moments. His expression shifted between pride and disbelief.
"This… what was Victor's past? How could a man like him describe Huo Qubing in such words without a cultural foundation? He doesn't look like a man beaten down by poverty all his life."
Even Sophia herself, watching from the stage, was shaken.
At six years old, she had only remembered her father as drunk, bitter, and crude. She had dismissed his words as nonsense. He never seemed like a scholar, never spoke like a teacher.
But now, seeing the replay, she was forced to confront the truth: the first spark of her romantic character had come from him.
He was the one who drunkenly rambled about Li Bai.
He was the one who imagined that the young general must have loved sweets.
He was the one who spoke, even in slurred tones, of romance that stretched beyond time.
The realization rattled her.
For years, she had believed she built herself in defiance of him. But maybe… part of her strength had unknowingly been shaped by him.
---
The footage moved forward.
Sophia, six years and four months old, came home clutching a certificate. She held it proudly to her chest.
That day, for the first time, she argued with her father.
"I am excellent! Better than you!"
She said it with a child's innocent defiance, her small fists clenched.
Victor only smiled faintly. "Is that so? A photo? A song that lasts a few minutes? Will people remember you?"
He leaned closer, voice low and disdainful. "If you really have talent, make a movie. Write your own film. Create something the world will remember."
Sophia's cheeks flushed red with anger. Through clenched teeth, she shouted:
"I will! I'll create something the whole world will love!"
Victor turned away, walking into the kitchen as if he didn't care. But when the camera zoomed in on his face as he washed rice, a gentle smile curved his lips. His eyes glowed with quiet pride.
He whispered words barely caught by the recording.
"You'll need strong, pure idealism in art. Music and poetry are just the start. Someday… maybe you'll create something like The Pianist at Sea."
The audience gasped.
How could this be?
Sophia was only six then, yet ten years later she would direct the film The Pianist at Sea, a masterpiece acclaimed across the world.
But at the time of Victor's whisper, no film by that name existed.
---
On the stage, Sophia frowned deeply.
"This is impossible. That movie was mine. I bled for it. I worked countless nights, shaping every scene. It couldn't have come from him. It must be coincidence—just a slip of his lips."
Her teeth clenched. The film was too personal, too hard-won. She couldn't accept that her father, the man she had cut out of her life, might have planted even the smallest seed of its creation.
---
From the seats, Charles—her colleague—spoke softly.
"Maybe Victor had some talent. He worked at a big company once, didn't he? Perhaps he picked up a little. Historical vocabulary, scraps of knowledge."
Nana, the host, nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. But he didn't create the foundations. For example, the song Under the Sea—it's so delicate, like flowing water. That came from Grace's influence, not Victor's."
The broadcast chat scrolled with similar comments. Most dismissed Victor, reducing him to background noise in Sophia's story.
Until the curtain changed again.
---
The next replay stunned them all.
Sophia's vow to create movies had barely left her lips when Victor stumbled back from work. He had been delivering food to make ends meet.
That night, he fell. The meals spilled across the dirt. His boss berated him, docked his pay, and finally fired him.
Alone and broken, Victor walked to the shores of Erhai Lake.
The night was dark, the waves whispering beneath a cloud-scattered moon. He wore only a patched white shirt beneath his coat, his thin figure trembling in the cold.
He stepped into the shallows, eyes hollow, face etched with despair.
And then—
The melody of "Under the Sea" seemed to rise in his silence.
The rhythm of the waves, the glow of the moon through clouds, the endless emptiness of the horizon—he wasn't composing with pen and paper. He was composing with his body, with his life, with his despair.
On the stage in the present, Principal Carter leapt to his feet, his voice cracking.
"He's using his own life as the background! That's why this song has such soul!"
Charles froze. Clara White covered her mouth. One hundred thousand spectators rose to their feet, leaning forward as the scene replayed again and again.
---
In the slums that night, Sophia was still practicing "Under the Sea" on her small instrument.
She never knew that while she struggled to learn the notes, her father was living the song in silence.
No one saw the man, standing in despair, walking again and again into the waves.
No one knew that the beauty of the song came not from genius alone, but from a man who poured his loneliness and pain into melody.
---
Back on the stage, Clara White wiped tears from her eyes.
"No wonder…" she whispered. "No wonder when he once explained the background of the song, I felt it so deeply. It wasn't theory. It was lived experience."
She broke down in sobs.
And the audience understood at last.
The song wasn't just Sophia's. It was Victor's experience, distilled into music, handed silently to his daughter.
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