Notes of Youth

The rain came suddenly that afternoon—soft at first, then steadier, as if it had been waiting all day for just the right moment. The school grounds blurred into muted shades of gray and green. Umbrellas bloomed like wildflowers. Windowpanes caught the rain and turned it into trembling silver veins.

Lin Keqing sat by the large window in the art room, a blank sketchpad resting gently in her lap. Her pencil lay across the page, untouched. She wasn't thinking of anything in particular—just listening. To the soft thrum of rain against the glass, the quiet flipping of paper, and the faint, familiar warmth of voices in the background.

Across the room, Le Yahan and Chen Yuke were folding origami cranes. Their movements were unhurried, rhythmic, almost meditative. Sheets of pastel paper—mint, rose, cornflower—were slowly transformed into delicate birds.

"Do you want to try one?" Chen Yuke asked, her tone light and warm.

Keqing shook her head, a quiet smile on her lips. "I'd probably fold it backwards and end up with a very confused squirrel."

Le Yahan didn't look up, but a small chuckle escaped her. "Even squirrels have dreams."

"That's true," Yuke added thoughtfully. "And even if the fold is imperfect, it still counts as part of the hundred."

"The hundred?" Keqing echoed.

Chen Yuke folded the wings of a pale blue crane and placed it carefully on the table. "There's a story that says if you fold a hundred paper cranes, your wish will come true."

Keqing glanced at the growing flock of cranes. "Do you have a wish?"

"I think we all do," Yahan said softly.

They didn't ask each other for specifics. Some wishes weren't meant to be said aloud. Some were folded quietly, again and again, until the shape of them became something sacred.

Outside, under the stone arch near the library, Gu Yuyan stood watching the rain pool across the tiled courtyard. His umbrella remained closed in his hand. His gaze drifted—over the puddles, the trees dripping in silence, the blurred silhouettes of students passing by.

Inside the library, Tran Vuka sat at his usual corner table, surrounded by poetry books and a half-drunk mug of chrysanthemum tea. He wasn't reading with focus—he flipped through the pages like a pianist brushing fingers over keys, pausing when a line struck him.

A younger student approached hesitantly.

"Tran-senpai?"

He looked up, brows raised slightly.

"I… I read the poem they posted on the board last week. The one about the girl who wrote in blue ink. That was yours, wasn't it?"

He gave a slow smile, not confirming but not denying.

"It was beautiful," she said, voice trembling a little. "Would you mind if we used it for our class anthology?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Only if you write your favorite line by hand and include it next to the print."

"My handwriting?"

"Poetry should pass through a real person," he said simply. "Not just a printer."

Back in the art room, Keqing finally touched her pencil to the page. She didn't draw the rain or the cranes. Instead, she sketched the soft fall of light on Le Yahan's sleeve, the quiet curve of Chen Yuke's concentration, the feeling of this gentle moment—so easily overlooked, yet so full of meaning.

Le Yahan looked over her shoulder. "That's us."

Keqing nodded. "I don't want to forget this."

Before either of them could reply, a knock came at the door. They turned.

Gu Yuyan stood there, slightly damp from the rain. His fringe stuck lightly to his forehead. In his hand was a small paper bag.

"For you," he said quietly, stepping closer to Keqing.

She looked up, surprised, and took it gently.

Inside were two matcha cookies and a folded note.

"Something warm for rainy days.You always bring quiet sunshine.– G."

He gave a faint nod and left before she could say anything.

Yahan peeked into the bag with a teasing grin. "Someone's been reading the weather report and the mood forecast."

Keqing said nothing, but her eyes lingered on the note longer than they should have.

That evening, as the rain thinned to a soft mist, Keqing sat at her desk, the parchment note now flattened gently beside her journal. She reached for her phone to check the time and noticed a new message from her literature teacher.

"Results are in.

Congratulations, Lin Keqing – you've made it to the city-level finals. Third place overall."

She blinked, stunned for a moment. Then read it again. And again.

Third place. Out of all the schools.

Her hand lowered slowly. She wasn't sure what to feel first—relief, pride, disbelief, gratitude.

No one else was around to see her expression, but she smiled quietly to herself. It was the kind of smile that didn't need to be big. The kind that meant something deeper.

She looked out her window. The clouds were starting to drift apart, and beyond them, she could see the faintest patch of indigo sky.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Not just to herself. To her grandmother, to her teacher. To her friends. To the quiet boy with the umbrella. To the part of her that kept writing even when it felt impossible.

Then, as if moved by something small and invisible, she reached for her journal and carefully glued the cookie wrapper next to the note. Below it, she wrote:

"City Finals – 3rd place.

Rainy day. Silent joy."

The next morning, the rain had cleared, and the world smelled like wet leaves and beginnings.

In the common room, Chen Yuke was the first to find her. She spotted Keqing by the bulletin board and jogged over, eyes wide.

"Is it true?!"

Keqing blinked. "Is what true?"

"Don't play innocent! Teacher Ha posted the rankings online late last night. You're in the top three! You made it to the city finals!"

Le Yahan came in right behind her, holding a tablet. "Third place. Lin Keqing. It's literally right here. Why didn't you say anything?"

Keqing smiled faintly, a little shy. "I just… wanted to hold it in for a bit."

"Unbelievable," Chen Yuke said, arms crossed dramatically. "If I came third, I'd print it on a t-shirt."

Tran Vuka joined them a few minutes later, sipping a carton of soymilk. "So it was you," he said, half-grinning. "I suspected as much."

Gu Yuyan arrived last, quiet as always. He didn't say anything, but as he passed Keqing, their eyes met.

And in that single look—brief, steady, and full of quiet pride—he said everything she needed to hear.

Later that afternoon, the group gathered under the trees by the garden near the back of the school, where benches were dry again and the scent of earth still lingered.

"I think we should celebrate," Le Yahan said. "Not a party. Just... something gentle."

"Paper cranes?" Yuke suggested.

"Or a poetry reading," Tran offered. "Outside, in the dusk."

Keqing looked at all of them. Their warmth. Their energy. Their calm.

She nodded slowly.

"Yes," she said. "Let's make this moment last.''