In the tucked-away corners of Linhua University, where autumn leaves whispered secrets as they fell, a peculiar camaraderie formed between two unlikely souls—Lao Xu and Mei. Lao Xu, a bespectacled philosopher whose sharp tongue could slice through steel, had an unyielding affection for his drum set, nicknamed “快乐的Drum Set.”
One fine afternoon, Mei, the university’s resident cynic with a preference for irony over sincerity, found Lao Xu’s nose buried in The Complete Works of Wang Xiaobo while his feet tapped incessantly under a nearby tree.
“You and that drum set,” Mei smirked, her voice laced with sarcasm, “what’s so joyful about hitting things to make noise, hmm?”
Without lifting his gaze, Lao Xu replied, “Noise? For you, perhaps. For me, each sound is a note in the symphony of life’s absurdities.”
“I suppose you see yourself as a maestro then?” Mei retorted, sinking into the grass.
Lao Xu finally glanced up, the sun glinting off his thick glasses. “Nothing so grand,” he said with a slight grin, “Just an enthusiast of chaos, one who occasionally finds rhythm in discord.”
Under the canopy of the trees, where the air was thick with both falling leaves and meaning, their conversation flowed—each word a beat in their peculiar dance of cynicism and whimsy.
Time ambled forward, and Lao Xu’s playful tapping on the drum set became a staple in the campus soundtrack. Yet in dim-lit dorm rooms, whispered rumors began to sail about Lao Xu—a loner with misplaced ardor for antiquated humor finding solace in hollow drums. Mei, oddly endeared but ever skeptical, confronted him one afternoon.
“Xu, you do realize they think you’re a touch mad, don’t you? What’s your endgame—start a campus-wide percussion revolt?” Her eyebrows arched, her lips twisting in mock seriousness.
Lao Xu chuckled, a drumstick lazily twirling in his hand. “Ah, let them think what they may. No one ever danced to silence alone, Mei.”
“But they’re judging you,” Mei insisted, though her tone betrayed concern rather than ridicule.
Lao Xu paused, letting the drumsticks rest. “Judgment is but a rhythm of a different kind, Mei. Misunderstood notes need only a willing ear.”
It was then, caught in the ebb and flow of their repartee, that the insight Mei had been dancing around struck her: Lao Xu played to a beat that defied sorrow through simple, unrelenting joy. His drum set wasn’t just an object but his clarion call to live unfettered.
The last leaves fell, leaving the trees bereft and vulnerable. Their companionship grew unexpectedly warm, even as winter threatened to steal the vibrancy of campus life. One frigid evening, sun edged below the horizon, Lao Xu invited Mei to the dilapidated music hall.
When they entered, a group of students, lured by the unconventional charm of “快乐的Drum Set,” awaited them. Lao Xu raised a drumstick, and the hall erupted into untiring rhythms, each beat shaking the chill off ancient walls. Mei stood aside, swaying subtly, understanding perhaps for the first time the liberation within Lao Xu’s chaos.
As their impromptu music swirled into a crescendo, Mei leaned in closer to Lao Xu and murmured, “You might just convert me to your orchestra of madness yet.”
And beneath the shadows of winter trees, amid laughter and energetic beats, a last twist revealed itself within their exchange of decorum—a place where all notes found harmony, and life, though absurd, turned unmistakably sweet.