That morning, the sky over Celestia Harmony Kingdom was strangely clear. The first rays of sunlight glittered through the arched window, casting a warm glow on Thiên Ân's contemplative face as he stood in front of Alex's recording studio. The air drifted with the scent of old oak wood mingled with the rich bitterness of freshly brewed coffee.
He tapped on his phone screen. The singer's voice poured out—deep, warm, and weighty, like an underground stream flowing straight through one's soul.
Across from him, Alex sat back in a leather armchair, fingers interlocked, eyes half-closed. The room was silent except for the music and the steady rhythm of breathing. When the last note faded into the air, the mentor slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was calm, but strangely penetrating.
"Why this song, Thiên Ân?"
Thiên Ân replied without hesitation, though his tone carried thoughtful depth. "At first, I didn't pay much attention to it. But the more I listened, the more I felt its emotional layers… It sounds like the confession of someone who's weathered storms. And lately, this song's been creating a quiet buzz online, so I wanted to challenge myself."
Alex nodded slightly, eyes soft but sharp with the experience of someone who'd been in the industry for years. "Good. Your instincts are solid. We'll go with this one."
Thiên Ân let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The tension on his shoulders eased. He knew how strict Alex was—one nod from him weighed more than gold. It meant he was on the right path.
But then Alex's voice rose again—calm, yet commanding enough to keep anyone from drifting even for a second. "However, this arrangement isn't enough. We need a new demo—one that fully explores your vocal range and your unique 'color'. You can't sing like a copy. Understood?"
"Yes, sir! I'll follow your lead!" Thiên Ân's eyes lit up with excitement.
And so, they dove into work. Sheets of notes, beats, melody lines—all dissected and rearranged bit by bit. Outside, the sunlight drifted across the windows, laying long, golden ribbons across the wooden floor.
Three weeks passed in the blink of an eye.
These days, Thiên Ân practically lived in sound. He left early and returned late; every time he stepped into the house, his body felt so drained he could barely speak. Watching him, Mrs. Lan felt her heart tighten. What mother wouldn't want to ask, "Are you tired?" But whenever she met the fierce determination in her son's eyes, the words dissolved in her throat.
Those eyes—just like his father's. Once resolved, nothing in the world could make him turn back.
That day, three days before the final round, Mrs. Lan found her son sitting blankly on the sofa, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his exhausted face.
"Thiên Ân, are you free today?"
He looked up, surprised. "Yes, I'm free today. Uncle Alex told me to 'relax' to keep my mind clear before the competition."
"Then… why don't you come shopping with me?"
Her voice was calm, almost casual. But Thiên Ân blinked in confusion. His mom—the woman whose world revolved around groceries and chores—was asking him to go to a shopping mall? But he didn't ask questions. Whatever she wanted, he would agree.
"Yes, let me change first."
A small but radiant smile flickered in Mrs. Lan's eyes.
Skyland Mall—its name alone was synonymous with luxury. The tower rose boldly in the heart of the city, its glass exterior reflecting the fiery sunset glowing across the sky. The golden light spilled over its curved surface, turning the building into a massive crystal—proud and dazzling.
Inside, the air carried the fragrance of expensive perfumes and warm sandalwood. Soft orchestral music drifted over the marble floors. Each boutique sparkled with lights, mannequins adorned in elegant outfits, forming a glittering rhythm of urban opulence.
Walking beside his mother, Thiên Ân stayed quiet. He rarely visited places like this; a faint sense of displacement stirred inside him.
His mother was completely different today. She tried one outfit after another, her face brightening like she'd rediscovered a piece of her lost youth. Every time she stepped out of the fitting room, the shop assistant exclaimed, "This looks stunning on you! So elegant and refined!"
Thiên Ân waited on a velvet sofa, scrolling absently through his phone. Suddenly, the sharp click of heels made him look up instinctively.
And he froze.
His mother stood there, bathed in the warm yellow lights, wearing a soft cream-white dress. The simple yet sophisticated design fit her perfectly, highlighting her graceful, mature beauty. Her dark hair was loosely pinned, a few strands falling delicately over her shoulders. In that moment, the image of a weary mother in an oil-stained apron vanished—replaced by a woman elegant, proud, and breathtaking.
"Do I look pretty?" Mrs. Lan twirled lightly, smiling like a late-blooming flower.
"You… you look beautiful. Really beautiful, Mom." Thiên Ân said with a genuine smile.
She burst into laughter, her eyes shining with rare joy. "Then I'll wear this to watch you perform."
"You… you're coming to watch me?" he asked, startled.
"Of course. How could I miss such an important day?" Her voice was gentle yet resolute, like a promise.
They exchanged smiles, the ceiling lights glimmering in their eyes like tiny stars of hope.
But just as they stepped out of the store, a shrill voice cut through the warm moment:
"Oh my… isn't that Lan?"
A woman their age appeared—dressed in flashy designer clothes, face heavily made up to the point of stiffness. Beside her stood a young man about Thiên Ân's age—handsome, but with the arrogant air of someone who believed he belonged to a higher class.
Mrs. Lan faltered slightly, her hand tightening around her son's. "Let's go."
But the woman didn't plan to let them leave. She strode forward, smiling thinly like a razor.
"Running off already? Oh, maybe it's been too long—you didn't recognize me?"
Mrs. Lan answered politely, almost coldly. "Sorry, we're busy."
The woman laughed—sweet as artificial sugar, yet full of thorns. "I thought you couldn't afford to come here. If you owe any stores money… you can just let me know. I'm generous with the poor."
Anger surged in Thiên Ân. He stepped forward to retort, but his mother spoke first—calm, slow, each word sharp as ice.
"Oh? So it's Chu Tố Mai. Sorry, I didn't recognize you. You look quite… different now. Must've had a lot of work done. You look nothing like before."
Thiên Ân lowered his head, hand covering his mouth as his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Tố Mai's face flushed bright red, her thick makeup unable to hide the embarrassment. "You…!"
But Mrs. Lan didn't let her finish, adding one more line—gentle but cutting:
"But thank you for your concern. I can spend my own money just fine. You should keep yours… Perhaps you need it to fix your face a little more. Make it look natural next time."
Tố Mai froze, face contorted with fury.
Mrs. Lan swept forward gracefully. "Let's go, dear."
They walked away, leaving behind a furious shriek echoing across the hall:
"NGUYỄN NGỌC LAN! Don't act like you're still someone important!"
People turned to stare, murmuring. But Mrs. Lan didn't look back. She didn't need to. The straight line of her posture said enough—she had long learned to walk through life's cruelty and keep moving.
The sun set, painting the sky in hues of purple.
The door clicked open. "I'm home," Thiên Ân said, taking off his shoes.
Mr. Trọng walked out of the living room, startled to see his wife in the elegant white dress, though her expression was as cold as a warrior returning from battle.
"What happened? Did someone upset you?"
Mrs. Lan exhaled sharply, slamming her shopping bag on the table. "Who else? That wretched Chu Tố Mai! I swear, that woman… 'A boneless tongue twists a thousand ways; a mouth without rims bends in all directions.'"
Thiên Ân stood beside her, trying not to laugh, his face turning red. She shot him a glare before softening. "Anyway… go rest in your room."
He nodded and turned toward the stairs, but her voice called him back.
"Wait."
She handed him a carefully wrapped black bag. "This… is for you. Open it in your room."
"Huh?"
"Just go. Don't ask."
In his room, the warm desk lamp cast patches of light and shadow across the walls. With nervous anticipation, he opened the bag.
Inside was a custom performance outfit—neatly folded, each stitch meticulous and expensive. Beneath it lay a small folded note.
He opened it. The rushed handwriting was slightly slanted, painfully familiar.
To my beloved son,
I know you've worked so hard. I can't carry your burdens for you, nor can I stand under the stage lights with you. But I believe you're strong enough to shine. No matter the result, you will always be the brightest, most beautiful light in my heart.
"Mom…"
He stared at the note for a long moment, his nose stinging. The light from the window reflected in his violet eyes—a fierce determination burning within.
Outside, the night breeze fluttered the thin curtains. Gripping the note tightly, Thiên Ân whispered a vow to himself:
"I will make it… I have to."
Outside the window, a small bird took flight, disappearing into the orange glow of the coming dawn.