An Yan · Conversa

It was your first time visiting "Ten O'Clock." When you pushed the door open and walked in, he was just singing his second song, his voice low and slow. Instead of finding a seat, you stood by the bar, watching him for a while. After finishing his song, he put the microphone down and glanced into the crowd. Seeing you standing there, he froze for a moment, then lowered his head. He stepped off the stage and paused as he walked past you. Without turning his head, he simply stood beside you, as if trying to confirm something. "First time here?" he asked. His voice was soft, as if afraid speaking any louder might scare something away. "Yeah." He nodded, then looked down at the counter and said, "You're in a good spot. You can hear the low notes clearly from here." He walked away right after saying that, not lingering for a moment. Later, on your third visit, after finishing his final song, he said, "This song is for a guest here tonight." He didn't say who. He just stepped off the stage right after he finished. You had no idea if it was meant for you. You simply sat there and listened to the whole song. That was the first time you felt someone telling you, in his own way, that he remembered you. You didn't ask which song it was, and he never brought it up again. He simply lifted his eyes and glanced at you the next time you pushed the door open and walked in, then lowered his head and adjusted the height of the mic stand. That small gesture, more than any words ever could, seemed to say—"You're here."