I was born on a June morning, when it was still steamy. My younger brother Liam was born two minutes after me. Mom told me that when the doctor picked us up, my sister cried like a robin and I lay still. Looking back, I think even my first cry was a lack of courage to face this world.

Ever since I could remember, the house I lived in always had two sounds existing in parallel: my mother's singing and my father's sighing.

My mother is an opera singer, her voice is high, clear and distant like the sound of a bell falling into a lake, hearing it once is enough to remember for a lifetime. Sometimes, when she practiced, Liam and I would lie down on the floor, imagining some distant Europe, with white snow, towering churches, and brightly lit shows.

But that's just a fantasy. Our real house is an old apartment on the fifth floor, the walls are damp, the ceiling is patchy like the sky has been scratched by someone. The kitchen always smells of burning chili and lemongrass, and during the rainy season, water drips down like a smoldering curtain.

My father is an actor. A once famous actor. At least before us. People say he changed his career to start a family, but in reality he had no choice. When the investor learned that my mother was pregnant, my father's role was immediately cut. The market is cruel, capitalism is more cruel.

When I was young, I didn't understand anything.

I only know that my father often held his head and sat in the dark for a long time.

And then one afternoon, my father held my hand and walked down the street to an old pawn shop. I clearly remember the cold metal vapor and the dim light shining on other people's forgotten belongings. Watches, cameras, wedding rings, music players and at the end of the wall is a row of old violins hanging at an angle.

Dad said:

"Lily, try choosing a violin."

I had never held a violin, never thought I was suitable for music, but in that moment, I felt like I was sucked into a strange space. I pointed to the oldest guitar.

The shop owner raised his eyebrows:

"This tree's string is broken and its face is dented. Go get another tree."

Dad shook his head

"We took that tree."

I hugged the violin to my chest. It's lighter than I thought. The smell of wood, the smell of dust, the smell of time... blend together into something very real, very human.

My mother looked at the violin when my father brought it home. She was silent for a long time. Then she asked in a tired voice but still trying to keep it gentle:

"Where does the money come from?"

Dad didn't answer. Just sit down next to me and say:

"Lily, try playing."

I sat down and put the violin on my shoulder. I tried pulling. The first sound was as harsh as torn paper.

Liam frowned, his mother gently covered his ears.

But Dad smiled, a rare smile like a streak of sunlight entering a dim window.

"Come on baby."

I pulled a second, third...seventh time

When the string vibrates slightly, the sound is no longer sharp but begins to soften. Dad put his hand on my head:

"Do you hear? It's talking to you."

I looked up at my father.

For the first time, I saw his eyes truly light up.

That night, dad took me to the rooftop. From above, the city lights become smaller like a swarm of fireflies. The cold wind blew, my hair was messy, the sound of the guitar echoed in the air like melting dew.

Dad stood behind him and said:

"If you want, music will take you to a better place than this."

I still don't understand. But I believe

Because for the first time in his life, my father did not drink alcohol.

And my mother stood leaning against the railing, looking up at the two of us with strangely peaceful eyes. And Liam held his chin and looked at me playing the piano, his dark eyes seemed to bring the whole sky inside.

When I pulled the last rope, the wind suddenly stopped.

Quiet city.

The house is quiet.

My family is quiet.

I think:

"Maybe this is music"

From that night, I belonged to the violin and music.

My rooftop is the only place where the sky can be seen intact. The surrounding apartments were crowded together. Looking out from the window, we only saw brick walls and flying clothes. But on the fifth floor, just step through the old iron door and climb a few short steps, and the world immediately opens up like a blank page.

Every night, Liam and I go up there.

Not to play, but to breathe.

When my parents started arguing, their voices echoed from the kitchen like the sound of metal hitting each other, I often dragged Liam to the terrace to hide.

There are peaceful nights when we lie down and look at the stars.

Some nights, the wind is so strong that my hair hits my face and causes it to sting.

Some nights, the two were silent as if afraid of breathing too hard and something would collapse.

I bring my violin with me every time I go to the rooftop. Dad doesn't know, mom doesn't know either. I just want to play for the wind, for the stars, for the city, not for the four tired walls down there.

Liam sat very close to me.

To be more precise, you are always the one who relies on me more.

Sometimes I ask:

"Where do you think your future will be?"

I do not know. But I often reply:

"Somewhere higher than this rooftop."

One time she spoke softly, her voice like wind rubbing through her ears:

"I want to act. I want to stand on a big stage, have lights shining on my face, have people look at me, have people remember my name."

I look at you.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded. That look was so serious that it made me believe that one day, Liam would make it. She said that when she was only six years old, but from that moment, I knew acting was not something she liked for fun. It lives in me like underground water.

I put down the violin and asked again:

"Why do you want to be remembered so much?"

She was silent for a long time, then said in a slightly trembling voice:

"I'm afraid I'll disappear."

I put my arm around her shoulder. At that time, I didn't understand what she was thinking, but now that I remember it, I see that sentence as a distant prediction, drifting away, then returning to the most painful moment of my life.

That night, after the music, we lay down on the ground, still hot from the sun, to cool down. I looked up at the sky. In the dark sky, there is only one brightest star.

Liam asked:

"Do you think mom will get better?"

I turned my head to look at her. She spoke very softly, but her eyes turned red.

"Mom can still sing." I said, even though with my own ears I heard my mother's voice fading away little by little.

Liam did not believe it. I heard a tiny sigh escape from her chest.

Then I suddenly burst out laughing:

"Someday you'll be on TV, I'll play the piano in a special program, my parents will see me and be happy again."

Her voice is a mix of dreaminess and despair.

"I guess so." I said

The sky that night was as wide as my mother's heart had sung and as beautiful as my father had ever dreamed.

If someone asked me at that time, what was the most beautiful thing in my life, I would say the laughter of my younger brother lying next to me, under the open sky right on the old roof. But a beautiful childhood always has cracks.

One night, we had just gone to the rooftop when we heard the sound of glass breaking from the apartment below. The sound of dad shouting, the sound of mom crying, the sound of chairs being thrown over.

Liam asked softly:

"Miss Lily...are our parents about to leave us?"

I bit my lip. This is the first time I feel six years older.

"No, I still have a sister." I said

She rubbed her face against my shoulder, her nose cold like wind blowing through water.

"What if you leave me too?"

"No."

When she cried, my eyes also stung, but I knew I couldn't cry. I put the violin on my shoulder and played it. Not methodical, not technical, not in rhythm. But the sound of the piano drowned out the arguing. I pulled until my hands shook, until the noise downstairs stopped.

Liam raised his head and looked at me.

Your eyes are as bright as the only star in the sky.

That day, I realized:

Music can protect the person you love.

Even if just for a moment.

Even if it's just the size of an old guitar with almost broken strings.

From that night, the terrace became a place where the two children took refuge from the world.

Is the line between darkness and dreams.

This is where I play the violin for the wind to hear.

And Liam started rehearsing with a fake smile.

We promise each other:

When I grow up, no matter where I am, no matter how far apart I am, every time I look up at the sky, I will still remember a terrace full of stars.

I don't know how the future will take back that promise.

But it took.

It hurt so much that when I remember it, I can still hear the sharp sound of strings in my heart.

I met David for the first time on an early summer afternoon, a time when New York was still chilly enough to be in spring, but the sunlight had begun to bring the shivering warmth of a summer day. The sun lies sideways on the schoolyard, shining in thin streaks on the red brick floor.

Every step I took was like stepping on soft rays of light, making me feel like I was walking in a pale yellow painting.

I held the violin in my arms. The strings had just been changed this morning so it still had a new plastic smell, unpleasant but pleasant. My right finger is still a bit shaky from the more than two-hour session. The afternoon was quiet, only the sound of the wind blowing through the green trees in the yard, the sound of melaleuca leaves gently shaking each other like the innocent chatter of distant children.

The music room is located at the end of building K, where I visit every day as a survival habit. Every song I play is like breathing. I don't want people to hear me speak, but I want them to hear my music.

I pushed my hair aside, feeling a little ticklish as the sweat hadn't dried completely. The sleeves of the shirt stick to the skin, cold because of the air conditioning in the gym, but stepping out into the sunlight makes the body immediately warm.

I thought I would go straight home, to Liam, to his laughter, to a noisy dinner, to the guitar waiting on the shelf.

But at that moment, amidst the familiar sounds of the schoolyard, the sound of balls bouncing on the floor, the sound of sandals dragging, the buzzing of conversations, the sound of birds chirping outside in the trees, suddenly another sound entered my ears.

Very far, very light, very different.

Water sound.

I stopped.

The sound of the violin for two hours straight made my mind as tense as a wire, but just the slightest appearance of that sound made everything inside me sag.

I turned around and looked around, no one was paying attention.

The sound of water splashing. Not big nor small.

I instinctively turned into the opposite hallway, like a music listener running after the sound of a guitar falling from somewhere, not knowing why, just knowing I had to find it.

I passed a few rows of classrooms with the lights turned off. The last light of the day filtered through the long, narrow window, shining in faint lines onto the tile floor. Each step made a crunching sound, echoing into the cold space.

I went to the school's swimming pool, a place I rarely, almost never visited.

Through the large transparent glass, I see:

A boy was swimming in deep blue water, white lights falling from the ceiling made the water shimmer like crystal. When he emerged from the water, his black hair was soaked tight against his head, and  the water slid down his face and neck, glistening like beads falling off his feet.

The body is agile, sturdy, solid but not ostentatious. Beautiful in a natural way, without any effort.

I forgot how to breathe, not because he was so beautiful.

But because the scene is beautiful.

Like a slow motion movie.

He swam a few laps then stopped to rest, his hands resting on the edge of the pool, his eyes facing forward. He breathed evenly, but deeply, as if his body and mind were following the rhythm of the water.

When he turned around, his eyes were clear and bright, meeting my eyes through the glass. I was startled as if I was touched by an over-stretched string.

I was about to turn around and walk away when his voice penetrated the glass wall and echoed clearly:

"Are you watching me swim?"

I opened my eyes wide, my lips slightly parted. Don't know what to say.

He burst out laughing. That smile was not loud, not wide-mouthed, just a very slight curl of the lips, but it made the water behind it sparkle more.

"If you want, come closer. If you stand that far away, you won't be able to see clearly."

I felt my ears get hot. The skin on his face was as red as a peach that had just fallen from a branch. I stood still, unable to move.

When the pool cleared up and he was the only one left, I turned around to leave. I had taken three steps when a deep, warm voice rang out behind me:

"What's your name?"

I stopped, too briefly, too quickly, but I couldn't resist. I turned my head:  "...Lily Miller."

He stepped closer, towel draped over his shoulder. Steam still flowed down his arms and palms. Standing so close that I could clearly see the water on his eyelashes. He said:

"I'm David Windson."

I nodded, not knowing what else to say.

For some reason, the space between us became extremely silent but not uncomfortable at all. There was only the sound of water dripping from his hair to the floor. Then he looked down at the lake, his voice lowered:

"Do you believe in the flow of water?"

I blinked.

"...What do you mean?"

His eyes became more distant:

"Water has its memory. Who it meets, what it retains, and then carries it with it for a long time. The same goes for youth."

That sentence fell on me gently but stayed deep.

Before leaving, he brought a towel to dry his hair, then raised his voice as if to say the obvious:

"I'm swimming at 4pm tomorrow. If you want to watch more, come."

"...I'm not free."

David raised his eyebrows and smiled a vague smile, as thin as water waves:

"I know. But you'll come."

Coming home from school, my shoulders were so light it felt like I was carrying the sun. I returned home but my chest was still shaking.

Liam looked up from the laptop screen and frowned:

"What's wrong with you laughing so stupidly?"

I don't answer.

At night, when I put the violin on the shelf, I heard in my head the sound of falling water, the sound of swimming across the lake, the sound of someone's breath echoing in the vast space.

I don't know when, I stood in front of the window watching my shadow cast on the wall in the pale yellow light.

Then suddenly burst out laughing, softly but unable to hide it.

I know I will come.

And I know...

That was the first time my heart moved with the rhythm of the water.