Hope lightened her footsteps, moving as softly as a cat, afraid of startling Renly before her. She stopped by the guitar case, took out a ten-dollar bill from her pocket, and tossed it into the case. Then, with her hands neatly folded behind her back, she nervously and anxiously fixed her gaze on Renly again. However, she felt shy, unable to meet his eyes directly, only daring to steal glances at his well-defined, broad, and slender hands.
Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Renly’s smile. She looked up and instantly met his bright eyes, which rippled with a smile as luminous as the moonlight. Her heart seemed to stop beating; flustered, Hope quickly averted her gaze, even holding her breath.
“Ha.” A soft laugh escaped. Hope stole another glance and saw the smile in Renly’s eyes extend to the corners of his mouth. His soft lips curved into a carefree arc, and the whole world seemed to brighten.
The melody abruptly ceased. William and Graham stopped in their tracks, glancing at Renly, then at Hope. Their eyes eventually landed on the golden trophy in the guitar case. Finally, they looked back at Renly with utter disbelief, as if unable to discern whether they were in a dream or reality.
“It seems we’ve drawn an audience,” Ed Sheeran bowed slightly in acknowledgement and raised his voice. “Thank you for accompanying the last song. Now it’s your turn to shine—what do you say? Got any ideas?”
Renly’s mind was teeming with songs, but none seemed fitting for the night’s atmosphere. Suddenly, the image of the girl in the dining car flashed in his mind—Ophelia. He remembered the name because it was the name of one of the most famous tragic heroines in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. It seemed her parents must have been fond of Shakespeare.
The night’s liveliness, splendour, wildness, chaos, emotion, and the sense of no regrets—all these feelings coalesced into a melody, gently leaping at his fingertips. Renly looked up. “Do you have a tambourine?”
Ed bent down, rummaged through the nearby items, and pulled out a brightly coloured tambourine. “How about this African tribal-style one?”
Renly broke into a big smile. “Perfect. Now, give me a rhythm!”
Ed was momentarily surprised but asked no questions. “Sure.” Without exchanging names or any real communication, there was an unspoken understanding between them, forged through music. He began tapping the tambourine, improvising a rhythm. Then a voice came from beside him. “Good, just keep that rhythm and follow my keyboard notes!”Bang! Bang!
The steady, powerful rhythm of the tambourine resonated like a military march—vigorous, robust, and brimming with a controlled yet exhilarating energy. William couldn’t help but join in, clapping his hands to match the beat.
“Great!” Renly flashed a wide grin of approval, which bolstered William’s confidence. His clapping grew louder. Graham and Hope quickly followed suit, joining in the rhythmic clapping. Seeing this, a satisfied gleam flashed in Renly’s eyes as he nodded repeatedly. He raised his hands high and shouted, “Anyone else? Join in!”
At this point, a few spectators watching from the nearby bar could no longer resist. Four or five people stepped forward, one of them calling out, “Hey, buddy, how do we play?”
Ed stepped forward, raising his tambourine high and beating it with force. “Follow the rhythm!” he shouted.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The synchronized rhythm built momentum, generating a surprising sense of grandeur. Though there was no melody yet, it stirred something primal, igniting a faint rush of adrenaline. Just then, Renly’s hands struck the keyboard heavily, producing a single, resonant note to set the tone. He began to sing:
“I, I, when I was younger…”
His warm voice, tinged with a barely perceptible huskiness, carried a subtle charm, resonating under the neon lights and gently plucking at heartstrings.
“I, I, should have known better; and I can’t feel no remorse, and you don’t feel nothing back.”
The seemingly unremarkable sound of the keyboard, like an unruffled lake, carried an ascending momentum with each beat. Unconsciously, Ed’s rhythm quickened by half a beat, the exhilaration of blood rushing through his veins surging in the air.
Suddenly, the rhythm under Renly’s fingertips sped up. The melody, like a babbling brook, cascaded down in torrents, his slender fingers dazzling the eye. In mere beats, emotions burst forth, only to abruptly cease—a beauty beyond words.
Ed barely had time to react before the phrase ended. He stared at Renly in astonishment, then Renly burst into laughter, prompting Ed to smile as well. He shot Renly a glance, “Now I’m ready. Next time, I won’t be caught off guard.”
“I, I, got a new girlfriend. She feels like he’s on top; and I don’t feel no remorse, and you can’t see past my blinders.”
The peculiar lyrics were difficult to grasp, yet they carried a depth that invited careful contemplation—like the poetry of Shakespeare. Naturally, it brought to mind Cleopatra, an inherited artistic style.
In those simple words, a faint sorrow and regret could be felt. He had wounded her deeply; he knew it was wrong, yet he refused to repent. She had been hurt terribly; she knew he no longer belonged to her, yet she did not condemn him. In love, the one who gives always remains vulnerable—lowering their guard, laying down their weapons, willing to be hurt beyond recognition, and yet, she still bore no resentment.
Tragic and beautiful, grand like an epic.
The piano notes grew deep and heavy as Renly’s voice spread its wings and soared.
“Oh, Ophelia, you’ve been on my mind girl since the flood; Oh, Ophelia, Heaven help a fool who falls in love .”
That stirring voice, that unadorned lyric, struck Hope’s heart without warning.
Ophelia—Hamlet’s Ophelia. That pure, kind, innocent, romantic Ophelia. The Ophelia who gave everything for love. The Ophelia who was both heartbreaking and deeply yearned for.
Even when Hamlet, consumed by grief over his father’s death and his mother’s remarriage, lashed out at her in madness, the naïve Ophelia truly believed he behaved so only because he had lost his mind. She mourned for him. But Hamlet never considered how his actions would bring her pain—pain so deep it would lead her to despair.
Blinded by vengeance, Hamlet killed Ophelia’s father. Upon hearing the news, unable to bear the blow, Ophelia chose to end her own life.
Tears instantly blurred Hope’s vision. In Renly’s sorrowful song, was this Hamlet’s remorse and regret? Or was this his truest confession?
The piano surged like crashing waves, a tempest of melody unleashing an unrelenting tide of turmoil—confusion, longing, regret, and anguish pouring forth.
Ed did not quicken his drumbeats. Instead, he instinctively stopped, stood still, and quietly watched Renly, who was lost in the music. The melody, crystalline like spring water and luminous like moonlight, carried a faint sadness beneath its overwhelming joy, bringing tears to his eyes.
This time, there was no abrupt stop. The song burst forth completely, following the light and lively rhythm, climbing higher and higher, emotions erupting in full force.
“I, I, got a little paycheck; you got big plans and you gotta move. And I don’t feel nothing at all, and you can’t feel nothing small.”
That husky voice traced a graceful arc through the soaring high notes, like lightning streaking across the night sky—suddenly, the entire world lit up. The surging emotions, unleashed by the cascading melody, spiraled out of control.
He was so insignificant, tirelessly pursuing his so-called justice and dreams, willing to wound a noble soul, reaching the shores of vengeance with bloodstained hands. But was it truly worth it?
What had he missed? What had he lost?
Was this about Hamlet and Ophelia, or Hollywood’s trophies and dreams?
How many people lost themselves in the pursuit of dreams, even turning their dreams into bargaining chips just to achieve the highest honor? And yet, when success finally arrived, they were left bewildered—unable to find their dreams, their freedom, or the person they once were.
Everything was so ironic. The Emmy Awards were within reach, that golden trophy still resting in the guitar case. But now, he sat by the street, singing his heart out, like a wandering bard—like a drifter.
Hamlet lost his Ophelia. And in Hollywood, what must be sacrificed to reach the pinnacle?
That voice, wild to the extreme. That melody, joyous to the extreme. That lyric, sorrowful to the extreme. That note, desolate to the extreme…
Then, suddenly, it softened. The extravagance faded into simplicity.
In a hoarse voice, Renly sang softly,
“Honey, I love you, that’s all she wrote.”
Tears broke free, overflowing uncontrollably. It was impossible to tell whether they were shed for Ophelia’s fate or for Hamlet’s regret.
As a timeless classic, Hamlet has been analyzed from countless angles. Everyone agrees that Hamlet ultimately died for justice—a noble death, lamentable yet admirable.
But now, through Renly’s song, another story was told—Ophelia’s story.
Hamlet missed it, ultimately, he still missed it. Just like Cleopatra.
The rhythm resumed, the melody began again—gentle at first, then rising to its peak. From desolation to elation, Renly’s voice repeated,
“Oh, Ophelia, you’ve been on my mind girl like a drug ; Oh, Ophelia, Heaven help a fool who falls in love.
Oh, Ophelia, you’ve been on my mind girl since the flood ; Oh, Ophelia, Heaven help a fool who falls in love.”
Happiness and sorrow, suddenly, embraced one another.
Author’s note – Ophelia by The Lumineers
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