Notes of Youth

It was the last Friday of the month, and the sun, after days of soft, soaking rain, finally returned. The afternoon sky turned golden with a hint of peach, casting warm light through the windows and painting the wooden floors of the classrooms. Shadows of tree branches swayed on the corridor tiles, and the air smelled faintly of wet leaves, powdered chalk, and something hopeful.

That evening, the school hosted its monthly "Reflection Walk"—a quiet, voluntary tradition where students wandered the garden paths illuminated by glowing paper lanterns. Each lantern held a line—of poetry, of confession, of memory—submitted anonymously by students during the week.

There was no formal program. No stage. No announcement. Just soft paper, warm light, and the hush of thoughts made visible.

Lin Keqing walked alongside Chen Yuke and Le Yahan, her steps slow, eyes drifting. Around them, students murmured gently in pairs and small groups, voices blending into the rustle of leaves and the occasional birdcall settling into the dusk.

Lanterns swayed above their heads, strung from trees and wooden poles, each one a pale blossom of paper and light. Some carried bold, messy handwriting. Others were neat, calligraphic. One read:

 "I still remember the umbrella from September."

Keqing paused, her gaze catching on it. Something inside her fluttered.

Yahan leaned in, a smirk on her lips. "That's either you, or your legend now has fanfiction."

Chen Yuke grinned. "Should we start keeping a scrapbook of Keqing quotes?"

Keqing shook her head, cheeks faintly pink. "Please don't."

Ahead, near the ginkgo tree, students had gathered around a set of tables arranged by the Art Club. It was the club's newest initiative: The Wall of Moments—a place where anyone could contribute a thought, a sketch, or a phrase worth remembering. 

Fang Zichen, president of the Art Club, stood at the center of it all—quiet, focused, gently guiding students with soft instructions. His sleeves were rolled up, and charcoal stains dusted his fingers and the edge of his collar. There was nothing loud about him, and yet, his presence drew attention like a gentle magnet.

He spotted Keqing and gave a small nod.

"You're here," he said, his voice low but steady.

"I heard about the moment wall," she replied.

Fang Zichen held up a tray of thin rice paper slips and fine brushes. "One line. One memory. No signatures needed."

Each of them took a slip.

"One line," Fang repeated. "Something you want to say, but not out loud."

Le Yahan wrote in a looping, thoughtful hand:

"May small joys return, even if no one sees them."

Chen Yuke followed:

"I hope the people I care about sleep well tonight."

Fang paused longer than the others. Then, in a swift, practiced stroke:

"Not all paintings are made for galleries."

Keqing stared at her paper for a long time, listening to the rustling lanterns above. Then she dipped her brush and wrote:

"Even silence can carry warmth."

A voice spoke behind her. "That's a good one."

She turned to see Xu Yujin, leaning casually on the railing nearby. He wasn't part of the circle, but his eyes had been watching them for a while.

"You're not writing one?" she asked.

"I already did," he said, holding up a folded lantern. "But I like seeing what other people choose to say."

He paused. "Also—third place. City-level. You didn't tell anyone."

Keqing blinked. "I thought they already knew."

"I mean, yeah," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But still. Congrats."

"You saw the rankings?"

"I keep an eye on those I'm chasing," Yujin replied, smile half-sincere, half-challenging.

Before she could respond, Fang Zichen called out gently, "Keqing. Xu Yujin. Would you help us hang the new lanterns?"

Yujin sighed lightly. "Now we're teammates?"

But he followed her toward the hanging frame anyway.

They clipped their slips to the string beneath the tree. Keqing's paper fluttered beside his.

His read:

"Sometimes, I don't know if I'm competing or waiting."

Keqing read it and looked at him. "Do you usually say things like that?"

"No," he said. "Only when I don't know what I want."

As they stepped back, a girl from Class 10A approached Keqing timidly, holding a small notebook.

"Excuse me… Are you Lin Keqing?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"I read your essay. My older sister printed it out for me. It felt like… reading rain. But in a good way. Would you mind… writing something for me? A sentence?"

Keqing blinked, touched. She accepted the notebook and wrote:

"Write even when no one reads. That's how stories begin."

The girl clutched the notebook and gave a small bow before hurrying away, her face pink and glowing.

As the sky deepened to violet, and the lantern light grew warmer, the group wandered toward the far end of the art display. There, half-hidden beneath other sketches, Keqing spotted a charcoal drawing—faded and soft, but rich with feeling.

A boy in the rain. Umbrella closed. Head tilted upward. Alone, yet not empty.

The signature: Zichen '23.

"You drew this?" she asked Fang quietly.

He nodded. "Last spring."

"Is it someone you knew?"

"I didn't know at the time," he said. "Just… I kept drawing him, over and over. Eventually, I stopped needing to ask why."

She looked again. The silhouette. The solitude. It reminded her of someone.

Of Gu Yuyan, standing beneath the rain, not opening his umbrella.

As they walked back toward the main lantern path, a gust of wind tugged at the lines of paper. One slip came loose and fluttered to the ground.

Keqing bent to retrieve it.

It wasn't signed. Just three lines in neat handwriting.

"I was never good with words.But I hope she knows I waited in the rain."

She froze, reading it again.

The phrasing. The restraint. The memory it triggered.

Before she could speak, she heard soft footsteps behind her.

"You're still here?"It was Gu Yuyan.

He wasn't holding a lantern. Or a brush. Just his familiar, quiet presence.

"They look better when the wind moves them," he said, watching the lanterns sway.

"I wonder," Keqing said, voice low, "how many of these were written for someone specific."

Gu Yuyan didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the line of paper lanterns, glowing like floating memories.

Then, without looking at her:"Some were."

Keqing stood beside him. The sky had shifted now into a wash of deep indigo. The scent of tea leaves drifted faintly from the common room. The world felt paused.

And though they didn't speak more, something passed between them—unwritten, like the line of a poem you never needed to finish to understand.

That night, before bed, Keqing opened her journal.

She pasted in the girl's notebook paper, the sketch of the boy in the rain she'd printed earlier, and one of the small unused rice slips Fang had given her.

Below it, she wrote:

"Some memories are quiet.Some are made of light.Some, we don't even know are happening… until later."

She closed the journal gently.

Outside, the lanterns still swayed in the breeze—soft, glowing, carrying all the things unsaid.