A week later.
Yan Hansheng sat in front of the grand piano in his music room, tranquility was painted upon his delicately handsome features as his slender — gloved hands — rested on the black and white keys, hovering over them as they flexed slightly.
His long silky hair was tied in a loose braid, resting on his shoulder as it spilled on his chest and loose locks of hair framed the sides of his face.
A soft smile, a deep breath, the naturally warm sunlight filtering into the room through the windows. It all highlighted the stillness of it as the musician's fingers remained frozen on the piano keys, eyes cast down and half-lidded as he frowned.
The look on his face was one that a troubled and stumped artist would wear when the seemingly never-ending river of their creativity was blocked.
His feet tapped on the wooden floor, each beat carrying a certain rhythm he failed to translate into the notes of his piano.