246: Chapter 246 Redemption from the East – Bonus Chapter of "I Can't See You"

Vienna's rain always comes and goes quickly.

After a night of washing, the cobblestones of Kärntner Straße shimmered with a cold, bluish-gray light.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the sweet fragrance of freshly baked croissants from the bakery next door.

Hans, the owner of the "Silent Mozart" Bookstore,

habitually polished his gold-rimmed monocle with a chamois cloth.

He hummed a waltz by Strauss, his mood unaffected by yesterday's overcast skies.

To him, today was destined to be another elegant and tedious day,

where only a few regular customers would come to discuss the depths of philosophy.

"Clink—"

Just as he unlocked the door, the copper bell hanging on the lintel let out a sharp, hurried ring.

Hans's elegant polishing motion froze mid-air.

This was unusual.

Normally at this hour, only hungover vagrants would be wandering the street corners.

But now, a crowd of well-dressed locals was actually flooding into the shop.

Leading the pack were several University of Vienna students carrying backpacks,

followed closely by several bank employees in suits and ties, clearly stopping by before work.

They didn't pause for a second at the pile of bestselling chivalric romances by the door,

but headed straight for the dusty "Miscellaneous Section" in the deepest part of the shop.

"Sorry, excuse me."

A middle-aged woman in a trench coat even pushed past the students, disregarding her decorum,

reached out to pull a dark blue book from the corner, and let out a soft sigh of relief.

Hans wore a gentleman's fake smile, but the corner of his eye was twitching uncontrollably.

That was *the ferryman*, the book reserved by that young man from the East yesterday.

"Everyone."

Hans finally couldn't help but speak up, attempting to maintain the order and tone of the shop.

"If I may be so bold, that is merely... a piece of light reading from the East.

If you are mistaking it for some kind of new menu containing hallucinogens, as the owner, I must warn you..."

"Sir, haven't you seen Facebook?"

An art student who had grabbed a book interrupted him,

his eyes shining with a near-fanatical light:

"A big guy from the University of Vienna was reduced to a puddle of tears.

Everyone wants to know what kind of story could shatter a Nietzsche-believing tough guy like that."

Hans was stunned.

"This is the salvation from the East," the boy said, stroking the book in his hand.

"The whole university is discussing that Eastern salvation right now. Owner, your information is too outdated."

The crowd checked out and left.

Hans sat back on the high stool behind the counter suspiciously, opened his slow-running computer, and logged into Facebook.

In the top ten of Vienna's local trending list, there it was: a long post accompanied by a picture of eyes as red and swollen as walnuts.

In the comments section, requests for proxies and lending were refreshing at a rate of several per second.

"Absurd."

Hans muttered, yet his gaze subconsciously drifted toward the bottom of the counter.

There lay a flyer he had crumpled and then smoothed out again.

The line of Gothic German on the back was like a thorn, making his eyes sting.

[Souls have no borders, but discrimination does.]

Quiet returned to the shop for the moment.

Hans reached out and, as if possessed, pulled a copy of *the ferryman* from the stock box at the very bottom of the counter.

It was from a box of samples he had ordered extra yesterday just to round out an order.

"I'm only doing this to find its logical loopholes."

Hans explained to the air, adjusting his glasses.

"Only by finding the flaws can I more professionally dissuade those blind customers next time."

He casually flipped to the first page, a smile of ready criticism on his lips.

At first, he read very quickly,

his fingers even tapping an impatient rhythm on the counter.

But gradually, the tapping finger stopped.

Five minutes later, he shifted from standing to leaning halfway over the counter.

Twenty minutes later, he took off his prized gold-rimmed glasses and tossed them aside,

his entire face nearly pressed against the pages, not even noticing when the fat cat by the door jumped onto the counter.

Those questions about survival, death, and love mercilessly battered the bastions of rationality he was so proud of.

"Run... Dylan, don't look back..."

Hans stared at the page, his lips trembling as he let out a murmur as faint as a mosquito.

At this moment, he was no longer the arrogant Viennese bookseller,

but merely a spectator whose heart ached for a little girl on that endless wasteland.

"Owner?"

A confused call pulled him back to reality.

Hans didn't move, still in a daze.

"Owner!"

The clerk responsible for moving stock raised his voice.

Hans jerked awake and, with what was likely the fastest hand speed of his life, slammed the book shut with a loud "thud."

The noise was so loud it startled the clerk.

Mr. Hans, who usually only read Hegel and always spoke of logic,

now had slightly red eyes and was death-gripping that Eastern book he had called "trash."

The air was deathly silent.

Hans's face instantly turned the color of liver.

He cleared his throat, stiffened his expression, and pushed up his glasses solemnly:

"I was checking the... binding quality of this batch of books!

Look, this font spacing doesn't meet aesthetic standards. Selling such books to readers is simply a dereliction of our duty!"

With that, he quickly stuffed the book into the innermost drawer of the counter, his movements as rough as if he were covering up evidence of a crime.

"Oh..." The clerk nodded, only half-understanding, but his gaze drifted to the owner's ears, which were red enough to bleed.

"Then... do we need to take them off the shelves?"

"Ahem! Since we've already stocked them, for the sake of costs, let's leave them for now."

Hans grabbed a rag and haphazardly wiped the already clean tabletop.

"Go organize the warehouse."

Once the clerk turned to leave, Hans quickly pulled open the drawer,

silently took the book out again, and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles he had just pinched... Four o'clock in the afternoon, Vienna's Golden Hall.

This building, hailed as a temple of music, was currently shrouded in a suffocating low pressure.

The backstage lounge was filled with the scent of string rosin.

Moving through the area were world-class music critics, solemn-faced royal orchestra conductors,

and even international piano masters invited by Ye Xi's father.

Ye Xi sat on a velvet armchair, her dark green backless haute couture gown making her look like a lonely orchid blooming in the snow.

Even though she had won every major award back home, in this nearly frozen atmosphere, her fingertips were still uncontrollably cold.

Spasmodic pangs of pain came from her stomach—a physiological reaction to extreme tension.

"Xiao Xi, have some water to moisten your throat."

Her manager, Sister Yang, distressed, handed over a bottle of warm water, her voice kept very low for fear of disturbing the big shots around them.

Ye Xi shook her head, her face somewhat pale.

She refused any liquids now; it would only make her stomach feel worse.

A few low-voiced German conversations drifted over from nearby;

several musicians were discussing her credentials, their tones carrying undisguised disdain.

"Whew..."

Ye Xi took a deep breath, leaned down, and from the very bottom of her carry-on bag, pulled out an English version of *the ferryman*.

She had specifically asked Sister Yang to run through three blocks early this morning to buy it.

In this hall filled with German, logic, and arrogance,

this book from her homeland, from the one with the familiar soulful touch, became her only oxygen mask.

She flipped to the dog-eared page.

It was a line Tristan said to Dylan: "If I really exist, it's because you need me."

Ye Xi's fingertips gently stroked the printed words.

In her mind, the image of that always lazy guy suddenly appeared,

along with the line he sent on WeChat: [Just think of the audience as a bunch of pigeons waiting for you to feed them.]

The warmth in the words was like a current flowing through her fingertips to her entire body, dispelling the bone-chilling cold around her.

She no longer cared about the critical gazes around her, nor did she think about the harsh music reviews to come.

She immersed herself in that wasteland, running with Dylan, crossing the boundary between life and death together.

The noisy clamor backstage seemed to have been muted.

The musicians who had been whispering gradually grew quiet.

They looked at the Eastern girl in surprise.

She wore a dark green gown, her skirt spread out on the dark red carpet, holding a dark blue book in her hands.

She read with such focus, her serene profile shimmering with a porcelain-white glow under the dim lights.

In that moment, the tense aura she had from her nerves vanished,

replaced by a steadiness that was out of place with her surroundings, yet strangely blended into a sense of holiness.

Like a still oil painting.

In the corner, a senior photojournalist from the *Austrian Gazette*, who had been boredly wiping his lens,

was used to seeing anxious, pretentious, or hysterical artists backstage.

But this scene hit him hard.

No posing, no affectation.

Only pure reading, pure stillness.

That was the restraint and power unique to the East.

The journalist instinctively raised his camera, held his breath, and placed his finger on the shutter.

"Click."

The shutter clicked softly, freezing this moment in time...