Tears Spilled in Heaven

As the sun set in the west and the night began to fall, Dean and his companions drove into the southern part of the Strip. Along the way, all manner of luxurious resort hotels lined the avenue, each with its own eccentric features and fantastical designs. The Lorenz Hotel was among them, and from afar, it resembled a black-and-white liquor jug straight out of the Second World War.

Dean stepped out across the street from the hotel at Ah Xiang’s Sichuan Restaurant, gazed at the building opposite, and counted the floors. On the 20th floor, the topmost level, a few rooms already had their lights on. He nodded, then walked into the restaurant, where the main hall was filled with guests—mostly East Asian faces fresh from Chinatown after work. The air was thick with the spicy aroma of Sichuan cuisine, mingling with the clink of glasses. It seemed this Chinese restaurant had a license to serve alcohol.

Dean chose a private room for greater privacy. “Nourishing chicken soup, spicy diced chicken, spicy pork intestines, mapo tofu, boiled pork slices, twice-cooked pork, shredded pork with garlic sauce…” Dean took the special menu from the kindly, smiling Chinese woman in an apron and rattled off over a dozen renowned Sichuan dishes. Rarely did he have the chance to indulge in such expensive food from his homeland, so he intended to savor it fully.

Yet as each dish was named, Last’s lips twitched and his face paled, trembling with terror. “Too spicy!”

“Believe me, you can train yourself to handle spicy food. Once you get used to it, you’ll enter an entirely new world of culinary delights—a treasure trove waiting to be discovered!”

“Nonsense! Last time I ate with you, my mouth and my backside felt like they were on fire. I spent the whole night on the toilet. Grace almost called an ambulance for me. I’m not doing this again!” Last recalled his traumatic experience, blushing in embarrassment.

“I can’t handle spicy,” Brittany chimed in quickly.

“Dean… have mercy,” Liam pleaded. “Apart from Caroline and you, none of us can take spicy food.”

Dean regretfully closed the special menu and asked the woman for a standard one. “Fine, then orange chicken, beef with Chinese broccoli… hmm, let’s keep the shredded pork with garlic sauce, twice-cooked pork, and mapo tofu… and one plate of spicy diced chicken for a taste. Oh, and two cases of Budweiser.”

“You never drink,” Last said, snapping his chopsticks crisply at the air.

“I ordered it for you guys—to help everyone relax.” Dean carefully placed a can of beer in front of each companion, except himself. “By the way, Noah, Liam, why didn’t you bring your girlfriends tonight?”

Liam’s expression darkened. “Cynthia wasn’t physically hurt, but the trauma was severe. She’s become hypersensitive, easily frightened by the slightest thing. Even with therapy, it hasn’t helped much.”

“With summer break coming, her family wanted her to stay home and recover.”

“Marie’s situation is even worse,” Noah sighed. “The barbecue party turned into a bloody massacre. She’s got PTSD, locked herself away, and won’t even go to her father’s barbecue joint.”

The mood at the table turned somber. The shooting had left deep scars.

Dean remembered reports he'd read in his previous life: survivors of shootings didn’t always recover. Some were haunted for life, sinking into depression.

“You’re cursed with bad luck,” Robert said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaling a hazy ring.

“That’s all in the past. Let’s not dwell on sad things during a happy gathering,” Cathy raised the teapot, filling everyone’s cup with steaming, fragrant Sichuan tea.

Just then, the waitress placed a plate of golden orange chicken in the center of the round table.

Chopsticks clumsily vied for the sugar-glazed chicken pieces.

“Let’s talk about something cheerful,” Dean said, chewing the sweet and mildly spicy chicken with a furrowed brow. “I was bored during my hospital stay, so I chatted with injured classmates and their families… It was heartbreaking, seeing them trapped in grief. I wanted to help them vent their suppressed emotions, to convey their sorrow for the departed.”

“And guess what? I found new inspiration—a song.”

Page 2/3

A sudden sputter—the manager choked on a piece of chicken, his face reddening, nearly suffocating. “Are you serious? You found inspiration while hospitalized? Are you channeling Elvis?”

Liam, Cathy, Noah, and Caroline all glanced over, eyes gleaming like cats smelling fish.

“I’m not joking. The song’s still in my head, not on paper yet, but I’ve got the title—”

Dean popped open several cans of Budweiser, placing them in front of everyone, then smiled without saying another word.

Everyone caught on, raising their beers in salute. Robert drained half a can in one go, his tiny eyes behind thick glasses shining with anticipation.

“This song is to commemorate the classmates and teachers who died at Lake Mead Beach, and their families. I hope they’re at peace in heaven and can feel the longing from those left behind, the tears of their loved ones. So the song is called ‘Tears in Heaven.’”

“Tears in Heaven?”

A brief pause fell over the table, a quiet stillness in which only the clatter of dishes in the main hall could be heard from the next room.

“A distilled poem,” Caroline remarked.

“Kid, what kind of brain do you have? You’re a genius at publicity! Just the name makes me want to hear it right now!” Robert’s gaze burned into Dean. “At such a critical moment, releasing a memorial song—if the quality is good and it moves people, the city government, LVPD, Nevada State High, and many others will go all out to promote it and calm public anger.”

“This new song isn’t even released…” Liam gulped down his beer, awed. “But it already has a huge advantage—Las Vegas will pay attention easily.”

“Isn’t this exploiting the dead for publicity? Is it really okay?” Last timidly objected.

“This is called remembrance. Dean, will you hum a few lines?” Brittany, hands clasped before her, cut off her boyfriend without hesitation.

Dean raised his teacup; everyone followed suit, clinking their cans together.

Beer splashed, sparkling in the air.

“Is there a guitar?” Dean looked around.

“Cathy, go to the car and fetch your gear!” Robert shouted.

In less than five minutes, Dean had a yellow wooden guitar in his arms. With Cathy’s help, he tuned the strings, took a deep breath, and plucked them with his ten fingers.

“I’ll just sing a few lines, for the meaning.”

“Will you remember me, if we meet again in heaven?”

His youthful voice, tinged with sadness and magic, drew the listeners instantly into the mood, their chopsticks forgotten.

I must be strong, and carry on

Cathy, Liam, and the boys tensed their brows, while the ever-sensitive Brittany gazed into the distance as if familiar faces appeared there.

Cause I know I just can’t stay here in heaven

…

After a minute, Dean put down the guitar, glancing around.

The listeners sat like puppets, unmoving.

Last stared blankly ahead, mouth agape.

Robert clung to his cigarette stub, his eyes unfocused.

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Liam crushed his beer can, his brow furrowed deeply.

Brittany covered her face, shoulders shaking, sobbing silently…

Was it really so overwhelming? It was just a song.

“What did you think?”

“Not bad… It really brings out the sadness. I feel like I heard my father, who’s been dead for years,” Last said gloomily.

“You’re trying to make fun of me, aren’t you, Dean…” Brittany wiped her wet, flushed face with a handkerchief, her expression shifting from sorrow to a relaxed ease. “You know I’ve lost several friends forever, and you purposely used such a sad melody to tease me. But I do feel better after crying.”

“Compared to your last ‘Amazing Day,’ this is much more unadorned,” Robert commented professionally. “The emotion is sincere, without unnecessary embellishment, and that’s what really earns tears. But honestly, this doesn’t feel like something someone your age could write—though I believe it’s your original work!”

“Besides, it’s not the rock style of ‘Good Morning,’ but more a blues-to-country transition. Can the band sing it?”

“Change the arrangement, make it lighter—why not? If the shooting survivors perform it, it’ll be even more sensational!” Caroline argued.

“If it’s a little rough, so be it. Once we make it famous, people will come knocking,” Cathy chimed in.

“I have a strong suggestion,” Robert looked at Dean. “Strike while the iron’s hot—record a demo within the week, contact a publisher, and perform it at your high school’s memorial next month on the 1st! If you wait, you’ll lose a lot of momentum. Dean, if you agree, we can draft a contract tonight and discuss the details.”

“Let’s leave the contract for now. I have one condition: after the song is released, a portion of the profits from tapes, singles, whatever, must be donated to the families of the Lake Mead victims,” Dean said solemnly.

It might be shameful to use the dead for publicity, but donating part of the proceeds to the bereaved—that wasn’t a bad thing. It was a way to ease his own sense of guilt.

“You even thought of that? Taking the moral high ground, making it impossible to criticize, and free publicity too,” Robert’s eyes widened, exaggerating, “This idea alone is worth at least a hundred thousand bucks!”

…

Everyone launched into a heated discussion about the new song—even Last and Brittany, outsiders to the circle, joined in, faces flushed from the argument.

Dean, meanwhile, acted as if it were none of his concern, nodding occasionally and urging everyone to drink.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?” Caroline smiled, her cheeks reddened.

“You’re not planning to get us drunk and do something bad, are you?”

“Correct!”

By the end, the table was in chaos, companions slumped over with heavy breaths and bleary eyes.

Dean supported the flushed, feverish Caroline.

“I said everyone should enjoy themselves tonight, so no one’s going home.”

Dean glanced out the window.

“Let’s go! Lorenz Hotel—my treat!”

…