"Ronan, over the past three years, what's the biggest change in your life?"
The journalist sitting across from him was a woman in her thirties. She'd carefully done up her face with the latest trendy freckle makeup, giving her a refined yet youthful look. Her chestnut curls fell lazily over her shoulders, and a practiced, subtle smile played on her lips. She held her phone in her right hand, the screen displaying the question she'd just asked.
Her smile was flawless, as if measured with precision, ready to charm anyone watching her on TV. But even so, as Ronan sat face-to-face with her, he could still catch a flicker of concern in her eyes—a gentle curiosity tinged with warmth.
It wasn't mockery or disdain, but genuine care. And yet, it was exactly that care that made the muscles in Ronan's arms tense up slowly.
He knew that look all too well. Too well. It was pity, sympathy—like someone gazing at a weakling or a failure. Ever since three years ago, when a tumor pressed on his nerves and stole his hearing, he'd faced that look every day, every hour, every moment.
Suppressing the emotions swirling inside him, Ronan raised his hands and answered in sign language, "I can't sing."
Truthfully, he hadn't lost his voice. He could still speak, and naturally, he could still sing. But because of his deafness, he couldn't hear himself at all. He'd lost the ability to judge his own sound, and then everything had plunged into darkness.
He used to think a deaf world would be silent, utterly still, devoid of any noise. But he was wrong.
A deaf world was chaotic. It was like being submerged in a boundless ocean, always catching faint, buzzing fragments of sound—meaningless, as if they belonged to a different frequency entirely. And so, the world slipped into an endless void.
Gradually, he'd fallen silent too. Over time, it was as if he'd forgotten how to make a sound.
The journalist paused after the sign language interpreter relayed his answer. A flicker of restrained struggle passed through her eyes, followed by a quiet sigh of regret.
Ronan had been a rising star, a new-generation singer on the cusp of greatness. He'd been preparing his second album, with countless fans and passersby eagerly awaiting it, ready to break into a whole new chapter. But three years ago, his hearing vanished overnight, his career came to a screeching halt, and he slowly faded from the public eye. Online, people expressed their sympathy and disappointment.
Then, a year ago, rumors surfaced that his vision was deteriorating too. They said he might go completely blind within three to seven years. A genius singer, barely given a chance to shine, had been cut short. The internet erupted with another wave of sighs and sorrow, but it still couldn't stop Ronan from being forgotten.
Until recently.
Ronan had re-emerged as a songwriter, stepping back into the public's view. It hadn't caused a huge stir yet, but this sharp-eyed journalist had sniffed out a potential story right away.
She let out a soft sigh. If only he hadn't gotten sick…
"Ronan, so what's the one thing you want to do most right now?" She pulled herself together and typed the question on her phone again.
Ronan's vision wasn't fading quickly. He could still see things—like the fleeting awkwardness on the journalist's face. It wasn't sharp, but it was there, everything softened as if draped in a thin veil.
"Sing."
He mouthed the word while signing it with his hands.
Without missing a beat, the journalist fired off her next question. "Ronan, does that mean you still haven't given up on your dream of singing?"
Given up?
After confirming he'd read the words correctly, even though text carried no emotion, Ronan's arm muscles tightened again. Bitterness flooded his mouth, and it took everything he had to stop himself from clenching his fists.
He hadn't given up. Never. Not once. Even when he'd been forced to pause, he hadn't surrendered!
"No. I. Haven't."
His voice was rough and unclear, but he spoke each word deliberately, clearly, staring straight at the journalist with eyes that had lost their spark. Silently, they conveyed the emotions churning deep inside him—more vivid, more powerful than words could ever be.
The interview went on, but the journalist stopped pressing him about his deafness or looming blindness. Instead, she shifted to professional questions about music.
When it was finally over, Ronan stood to see the staff out. Then he returned to the sofa, collapsing onto it heavily. His body sank deep into the cushions, exhaustion dragging him down like a free fall. The noisy, stifling air around him settled slowly, the vitality on his skin cooling under the moonlight. And then, the world grew quiet again.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The jumbled noise in his ears kept humming, but he'd long since gotten used to it.
The world could be frustrating, even despairing at times. But Ronan believed in music, the way some people believe in fairy tales.
He held firm to that belief. When notes flowed gently, those melodies were a constant reminder that some things couldn't be taken by the darkness. Life's colors and vibrancy adorned his world in their own way.
But…
In the dead of night, alone under the pristine moonlight, he couldn't help but wonder: What would life be like if he hadn't lost his hearing? What would the world look like if he could still sing?
Like now.
Ronan stretched out his hand carefully, feeling the cool moonlight spill through the small window onto his palm. He traced the brilliance of the starry sky, exploring the vast depths of the infinite universe, imagining with his mind the grandeur he could never fully grasp.
Then, he quietly closed his hand, as if he could hold the universe in it. Shutting his eyes, he found peace again, drifting slowly, slowly into sleep.
In a hazy daze, Ronan began to dream.
He dreamed he was on a stage, holding a guitar. A single spotlight, a stool, a microphone, and three companions—no extra frills, but it was enough.
Soft, creamy light poured down, warming his skin. Below the stage, people drank beer, munched on fries, and smoked cigarettes. Amid the curling smoke, their chatter mingled faintly. They seemed lost in their own worlds, but out of the corners of their eyes, they glanced at the stage, quietly taking in his performance.
Notes danced like a babbling brook across the guitar strings. He was singing, loud and free.
It all felt so real.
The scenes, the colors, the emotions—they echoed like reverberations from a deep valley. Near yet far, hard to distinguish, they buzzed in his ears, chaotic yet clear. Even the faces in the bar and the creaking door swaying in the shadows felt vivid.
Then—
Buzz.
A dull, drawn-out ringing pierced his ears, pulling everything apart. The images in his vision blurred. Vibrant orange light dissolved into fuzzy specks, spreading like mist until it became a swirl of smoke. People and scenes melted into broad strokes of color.
"Ronan!"
A bold shout came from far away, growing closer—so clear, so alive. It yanked at his attention, urging him to find that familiar voice in the hazy glow.
It had a southern accent, muddling the difference between certain sounds in Mandarin, so "Roland" and "Ronan" always got tangled up. As a kid, he'd been annoyed at his parents for giving him such a neutral name. But hearing it now, a rush of excitement and joy surged in his chest.
It sounded like his mother.
But… Ronan was disappointed.
He strained his eyes, but he couldn't find her. Instead, the scene around the stage flickered between clarity and blur.
It was a bar.
To his left, a counter glowed under lemon-yellow lights. A busy bartender leaned forward, taking orders. Golden beer foam and amber whiskey glinted faintly, sketching the vague outlines of the rest of the dim room.
To his right, scattered guests lounged in booths. Nearby were two pool tables, a jukebox, and a couple of dartboards. The sparse crowd enjoyed their night—some moody, some laughing—their expressions softened by the patchy light. He couldn't see them clearly.
Pain.
The scene blurred again. The light stung his dry eyes, misting them over. He closed them instinctively, still feeling the heat of the spotlight on his lids. The vapor hadn't even formed tears before it evaporated.
What was happening?
He opened his eyes again. Blue-black shadows churned below, while a deep yellow halo rolled above. The halo sank slowly, seeping downward, turning the shadows into peacock-blue silhouettes. Bold, vivid colors splashed across his vision like an oil painting, alive and unrestrained, blooming with energy.
He could see.
A wholly unfamiliar yet strikingly real scene—something his imagination alone could never conjure. The lifelike images were detailed down to the smallest speck—so vivid, so clear. It was a clarity he hadn't felt in over a year.
He could hear.
Sounds unfolded from every corner, near and far—the clinking of glasses in a drinking game, the shout for a waiter, the clamor of an argument. The world snapped into focus. The underwater hum vanished, and he broke through the surface.
The colors—so rich, so bright—crashed over him like a waterfall, the sheer force stealing his breath.
The sounds—so crisp, so alive—he could even pick out a guest grumbling at the bar. They were too beautiful to shut out.
If this was a dream, could he never wake up?
(End of Chapter)