Notes of Youth

The cold had settled softly over the school grounds by the time Monday arrived. Fallen leaves lined the edge of the courtyard like the border of an old painting, and students tucked their scarves tighter as they hurried between classes. Lin Keqing arrived early, her fingers still tingling from the air outside, and slipped quietly into the classroom.

On her desk lay a cream-colored envelope.

It had her name on it, written in an elegant, looping script. For a moment, she just stared at it, uncertain whether it was a note or a dream. Then she opened it.

Inside was an official invitation to the city-level literature awards ceremony. She had made it to the final round. Again.

She blinked slowly. Then again, faster this time.

Before she could fully process it, Le Yahan leaned over from the next desk, eyebrows raised. "Well? What is it?"

Keqing held out the card with both hands. Yahan took one look and let out a little squeal that turned several heads.

"You're going! You have to! We're getting you a proper dress. And you're going to read your work in front of an audience, right?"

Keqing gave her a tiny, uncertain smile. "I think... I'm supposed to. There's a reading portion."

Chen Yuke, who had just walked in, caught the last part. "Reading what?"

"She's going to the city finals!" Yahan beamed.

Chen blinked. Then he smiled, warm and genuine. "We'll be there. Even if they don't let us inside, we'll wait by the window with confetti."

Gu Yuyan, who had just sat down a few rows away, didn't say anything. But when Keqing glanced in his direction, she caught the faint nod he gave her. It was enough.

That afternoon, the creative reading group gathered in the library's back room to plan their final showcase. Keqing arrived to find the others already scattered across the cushions and low tables, folding papers and scribbling down notes.

On the board, someone had written in bright blue marker: "What stories do we carry into the world?"

Fang Zichen was sketching tiny birds in the margins of a poster. Xu Yujin was typing something into her phone, frowning. Chen Yuke and Le Yahan were arguing gently over which song should play in the background of their slideshow.

"I swear, if you play that sad violin piece again—" Yahan warned.

"Melancholy inspires reflection," Yuke replied dramatically.

"You inspire sleep," she muttered.

Keqing smiled quietly as she watched them.

"Hey," Fang Zichen said, noticing her. "Congrats. I heard."

"Thanks," she replied. "It still doesn't feel real."

"I think that's how you know it matters," he said.

They spent the next hour rehearsing parts of their performance—short readings, transitions, and even a mock introduction. Laughter bounced off the walls as someone flubbed a line and read a sentence backward. Yahan insisted on doing a dramatic bow at the end, causing Chen Yuke to throw a cushion at her.

Then, as the group settled down for a short break, a younger student peeked into the room—someone from Class 10B. She approached hesitantly, holding a photocopy of one of Keqing's earlier competition pieces.

"Excuse me," she said shyly. "Are you the one who wrote this?"

Keqing froze. Then nodded.

"It made me cry a little," the girl confessed, half-embarrassed. "Could you... maybe write more someday?"

The group went silent.

Keqing took the paper gently, her eyes soft. "Thank you. That means a lot."

The girl smiled and left, her ponytail swaying behind her.

Xu Yujin leaned over. "You realize what just happened, right?"

"What?" Keqing asked.

"You became someone else's story," she said.

In the evening, just before the school gates closed, Keqing stopped by the library again. She had one more reason to come—curiosity.

She returned to the notebook labeled "Student Archives" and flipped back to the story signed by Lin Wenzhou. She stared at the name again.

This time, she noticed something she hadn't before—pressed between two pages was a dried ginkgo leaf, delicate and pale yellow, almost translucent. She carefully picked it up, tracing its tiny veins with a fingertip.

It felt like a message.

The library grew quieter as the sky darkened. Keqing sat at the corner table, notebook open, scribbling thoughts and questions in the margins of her journal. A shadow passed the window—Gu Yuyan, on his way out, gave her a small wave without stopping. She lifted her pen in reply.

Later that night, Chen Yuke messaged the group chat with an idea: "Let's add a new section to our final showcase—personal pieces, something we've never shared before."

The room lit up with mixed responses:

Le Yahan: "What if it's too personal?"

Fang Zichen: "That's the point, isn't it?"

Xu Yujin: "I'm in."

Keqing read the messages in silence. Then typed, "I'll write something new."

She stared at the blinking cursor for a while after sending it, her heart thudding. What would she write? Would she finally say what she'd been afraid to?

That weekend, after a short practice session at school, Keqing went to a small restaurant near the city library. Her grandmother had arranged a short meeting with her father—something they did occasionally, quietly.

When he arrived, they spoke little at first. The clinking of chopsticks filled the space between words.

Then she asked, softly, "Dad... did you know someone named Lin Wenzhou?"

His chopsticks paused mid-air.

Very slowly, he set them down.

"I haven't heard that name in a long time," he murmured.

Her breath caught. "So you did?"

"She was... someone important to our school. Maybe I'll tell you more when you're ready."

Keqing didn't press. But as she looked out the window, the streetlight flickering on beneath the dusk sky, she realized that some doors don't close—they wait.

And maybe this story wasn't just about her anymore.

That night, as she tucked the invitation back into its envelope, she noticed something written on the inside flap in small print:

"Every word you write is a step toward another open door."

She smiled.

In the quiet of her room, she returned to the unfinished story she had started weeks ago and began to write again—this time not just for a contest, or for school, but because something inside her had been opened.

Because someone was listening.