The screen flickered to life.
Thousands tuned in the moment the notification dropped—*The Veiled Musician is live.* The stream opened to a still, dimly lit room, bathed in hues of soft lavender and gold. The camera framed the familiar figure in white, seated before her guzheng, face obscured beneath the signature silk veil.
No words. No greeting. Just her hands lifting, pausing mid-air, then descending gently onto the strings.
The first note rang out—low, mellow, laced with something inexplicably wistful.
The chat exploded.
*"She's back again???"*
*"Is it just me or does this sound... sad?"*
*"This isn't her usual style. It feels heavy."*
*"Tell me I'm not the only one crying."*
The guzheng's melody swirled through the room like mist—soft, haunting, intimate. A gentle plucking of strings, then a sudden shift, like a question was asked through music alone. Her fingers moved faster now, pushing emotion into every trembling note, and though she never said a word, the song told a story too vivid to ignore.
Outside the stream, social media was already catching fire.
Clips of the performance were being reposted under hashtags: *#VeiledMusicianLive* *#UnspokenLove* *#WhatIsSheSaying*
Some claimed it was a song of love—quiet, aching, too vulnerable to be voiced out loud.
Others argued it was guilt—like something broken inside her needed to bleed through music because words would fail.
"She's never played like this before," a popular music critic tweeted. "This is more than just performance—it's confession. Whatever she's carrying, it's unraveling in front of us."
Inside the stream, the viewers had tripled in under fifteen minutes.
The camera never shifted. The veil never moved. But the intensity of the piece only deepened—like waves crashing against a shore of emotions no one could name.
The melody slowed suddenly.
Her fingers lingered on a single note, dragging it out until it vibrated through the air like a sigh that had waited too long to be released.
And then—
Silence.
A breathless, pulsing silence.
The veiled musician lowered her hands, the final notes fading like echoes in an empty hallway. She didn't speak, didn't bow, didn't even acknowledge the flood of comments pouring in like a tidal wave.
Then the stream ended.
Just like that.
The screen went black.
And the internet lost its mind.
*"WHAT DOES IT MEAN???"*
*"I swear that tune was meant for someone."*
*"That was heartbreak. Unspoken, unresolved heartbreak."*
*"No, no—this was closure. Like saying goodbye without words."*
Theorists, fans, journalists—everyone wanted answers. But the veiled musician remained silent.
No caption. No follow-up. Just a song.
And yet, everyone who had listened knew that performance wasn't just art. It was layered—threaded with something real. The kind of raw vulnerability that could only come from someone trying to say what they couldn't speak aloud.
At Ji Yanluo's penthouse, the stream had played on one of the living room screens, left open accidentally by Xiao Lin.
And now, Bai Zhiqi stood frozen in front of it, the last note still ringing in her head. She said nothing, but the way her fingers curled into her sleeves betrayed the tension stirring in her chest.
Ji Lanxue, seated on the couch, was the first to break the silence.
"Tell me I wasn't the only one who felt that."
Bai Zhiqi didn't respond.
Ji Lanxue turned to her. "Do you think she has?"
"has what?" Bai Zhiqi asked quietly.
"That Bai Zhiqi fell in love with someone," Ji Lanxue said. "This wasn't just a song. It was a reaction."
Maybe it was. Or maybe... it was a warning.
Bai Zhiqi's heart thudded.
Because whatever that music had said—it had reached her, deeper than any accusation or confrontation could. As if the veiled musician was speaking directly to her. And maybe she was.
Maybe this was just the beginning.
And maybe silence would no longer be enough.