Notes of Youth

The school auditorium buzzed with hushed anticipation. A small stage had been set up at the front, decorated with navy blue curtains and soft golden fairy lights. Rows of seats slowly filled with students, the air thick with whispers and restless rustling.

Today, the school was announcing the selected representatives for the city-level literary competition.

Lin Keqing sat near the back, her sketchbook on her lap, fingers curled lightly around the spine. Though she already knew her name was on the list, something about this moment made her heart beat just a little too loud.

"Your name's third on the program," Le Yahan whispered beside her, nudging her gently. "Don't look so nervous. You're not giving a speech."

Keqing smiled faintly. "I know. It still feels strange."

"It should," Yahan said with a grin. "You're being seen."

From a few rows ahead, Liu Tianxue turned slightly, her sleek ponytail swaying as she glanced back—just long enough for Keqing to catch the look. It wasn't hostile. But it wasn't congratulatory either. A cool gaze, evaluating.

The ceremony began with the vice principal's brief opening remarks. Then came the soft hush before a student was called up.

To everyone's surprise, the lights dimmed—and a single piano note echoed across the auditorium.

Eyes turned.

A figure sat at the grand piano in the corner of the stage, back straight, hands poised. The spotlight swept toward him.

Tran Vuka.

He wore the school uniform neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, dark hair falling over one brow. As his fingers began to dance over the keys, the room fell completely silent.

The melody was familiar.

Lin Keqing's breath caught. She had heard this piece before—weeks ago, spilling faintly through the music room doors late after class. Back then, it had been a secret. Now, it had a name.

She turned slightly to Gu Yuyan, who sat one row ahead. He was still, but his eyes flickered toward the stage, then toward her—as if he knew what she was thinking.

"So it was him," Keqing whispered.

As the music faded, soft applause filled the auditorium. Tran Vuka stood, bowed slightly, then stepped away from the piano without a word. He didn't smile, didn't acknowledge the praise—just melted into the shadows near the side curtain.

Something about that quiet exit tugged at Keqing.

Then her name was called.

"Representing Class 11A1: Lin Keqing."

She rose slowly. Her heart thudded. She walked toward the stage with even steps, but her chest felt weightless, as if she were moving through water. She stood beneath the lights, receiving her certificate with a quiet nod, then joined the small group of student representatives at the side.

From the crowd, Gu Yuyan watched.

So did Tianxue.

After the ceremony, students spilled into the hallway, buzzing about the event.

Keqing stood near the courtyard, fingers still curled around her rolled certificate. Le Yahan leaned against the railing beside her.

"That piano piece," Keqing said softly. "It was…"

"Moving?" Yahan offered.

Keqing nodded. "It felt like something I've carried for a long time—but didn't have words for."

Before Yahan could answer, a quiet voice interrupted them.

"It's called Evensong."

They turned.

Tran Vuka stood a few paces away, hands in his blazer pockets. He didn't smile, but his eyes held something thoughtful.

"You wrote it?" Keqing asked.

"I improvised it the first time," he said. "Yesterday I gave it a name."

She blinked.

"Why now?" she asked.

"Because the first time someone heard it, they stayed outside the room until it ended," he replied, gaze resting gently on hers. "That meant something."

Keqing didn't know what to say. But something inside her stirred—like a memory she hadn't realized was hers.

Elsewhere, in the quiet of the third-floor corridor, Liu Tianxue leaned against the wall, arms folded. She watched the courtyard through the window, saw the way Tran Vuka's words made Keqing pause.

Then Gu Yuyan's reflection appeared in the glass behind her.

"You didn't stay for the whole ceremony," he said.

"Wasn't much left to see."

"She looked for you when she stepped down."

Tianxue turned her head slightly.

"You think I care whether she looked or not?"

"I think you care more than you want to admit."

She scoffed softly. "She writes in whispers, Gu Yuyan. You want the world to hear her. But some people only echo."

"Echoes don't last," he said. "Real voices do."

Their eyes met briefly. And for a second, something bitter flickered in hers—then vanished.

That evening, Keqing passed by the music room again. The door was ajar. Light spilled across the floor.

Inside, Tran Vuka sat alone at the piano, his fingers gently pressing the same notes from earlier—but slower, softer.

She stepped inside without meaning to.

"You came back," he said, not looking up.

"The melody stayed with me."

"It stayed with me too," he said, pausing. "I just didn't know who it belonged to until now."

Silence fell between them.

"Why music?" she asked.

"Because sometimes words can't carry everything," he replied. "But sound… it doesn't ask permission. It just moves through you."

She sat beside the piano, not touching the keys, just listening.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel the need to say anything at all.

As the crowd began to thin and the ceremony officially concluded, the lights on stage dimmed to a soft amber glow. Lin Keqing stepped down the stage steps with careful steps, her rolled certificate clutched loosely in one hand. The faint hum of the piano still echoed in her chest.

Backstage, a few students were cleaning up the props and flower arrangements. Among them, she spotted a familiar figure bending to pick up an art board.

"Fang Zichen?"

He looked up, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He pushed them up and gave her a surprised smile.

"Lin Keqing. Congratulations."

"I didn't know you were part of the organizing team," she said.

"Someone had to keep the aesthetics from falling apart," he teased lightly, then added more seriously, "I saw your name on the list last week. I knew you'd be up there."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Because you write like you don't expect to be read," he said. "That kind of honesty is rare."

She blinked, unsure how to respond. He chuckled softly.

"Don't worry. I won't start writing poems just yet," he said, already turning back to help a junior student fix a ribbon. "But I do know how to recognize art when I see it."

From the upper balcony of the auditorium, Gu Yuyan hadn't moved for a while.

He'd stayed seated long after the applause ended. His eyes had followed Lin Keqing's every movement—up the steps, across the stage, back down.

But it was the piano that lingered in his mind.

Tran Vuka's melody wasn't complicated. But it had intention.

Each note fell like breath over water—unrushed, deliberate. It carried the kind of stillness Gu Yuyan often found only in books or rain.

He thought back to the afternoon weeks ago, when he and Keqing had sat in silence near the library windows, trading thoughts without raising their voices. That was when he had started writing again.

She listens, he thought. Even to the quietest parts of people.

He closed his notebook gently and stood.

Outside the main hall, under a grey sky threatening late drizzle, the crowd of students slowly dispersed. Some took photos. Others exchanged congratulations.

Liu Tianxue stood on the edge of it all, back straight, hands folded before her.

A group of girls waved her over, but she shook her head.

From a distance, she watched Keqing, Le Yahan, and Chen Yuke laughing softly together. Tran Vuka leaned against a column nearby, seemingly uninterested, but his eyes flickered toward them once or twice.

"Too many kinds of brilliance in one corner," Tianxue murmured.

She turned and walked away—steps silent, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

No one stopped her.

Later that evening, the rain finally came.

Lin Keqing sat by her bedroom window, knees tucked beneath her, listening to the soft patter against the glass. Her sketchbook lay open beside her, but she hadn't drawn anything yet.

Instead, she wrote a single line:

"Some music doesn't ask to be remembered. It just waits quietly to be found again."

She thought of the piano, the spotlight, and the boy who had written a melody without a name—until someone listened.

Then she closed her eyes.

Outside, the sound of rain blurred into silence. And beneath it all, something soft and hopeful began to take root again.