Notes of Youth

The school auditorium was already half full when Lin Keqing arrived, her hands trembling slightly despite the calmness on her face. Outside, the winter twilight deepened, but inside, the warm lights of the stage cast a soft golden glow.

The literature club had spent weeks preparing for this moment. Scripts rehearsed, music timed, backdrop painted. But nothing could completely prepare them for the hum of whispers from the audience, or the sudden silence that settled as the lights dimmed.

Backstage, Chen Yuke adjusted the last cable nervously while Le Yahan peeked through the curtain. "It's packed," she whispered. "Even the back rows are full."

"And Gu Yuyan's mom is here," Fang Zichen added, raising a brow. "With someone. Might be his father."

Keqing blinked. "His father?"

Yahan looked surprised. "Didn't they say he works abroad?"

Fang only shrugged. "That might be him. He hasn't spoken a word yet."

The opening performance began with an instrumental by Tran Vuka, who played a gentle, melancholic piece on his keyboard. A hush fell across the room as the notes drifted through the auditorium like snowfall. Then came short readings from Yahan and Zichen, interwoven with images projected across the stage—drawings, quotes, old photos.

Then it was Keqing's turn.

She stepped into the light.

The paper in her hand felt heavier than it should have. She swallowed, then began to read:

"There are things we never say. Not because we don't want to—but because we don't know how. So we write. To remember. To forget. To hope."

She spoke slowly, each sentence unfurling like a ribbon in the quiet air. Her words traced fragments of memory, moments with her grandmother, rainy walks, the silence of libraries, and the fear of being truly seen.

Halfway through, a flicker—

The microphone crackled. Then cut off.

A murmur stirred the audience. Keqing's fingers froze on the page. For a second, the silence threatened to collapse inwards.

But then, she looked up, met Gu Yuyan's eyes in the crowd. He gave her the faintest nod.

She stepped forward, held the page higher, and raised her voice—not loud, but clear.

"We carry our stories like leaves in the wind. Sometimes we let them go. Sometimes they bring us home."

The auditorium held its breath. And then, a ripple of applause—soft at first, then swelling.

The tech team scrambled to fix the mic. Yahan flashed her a thumbs-up from the wings. Even one of the teachers dabbed at their eyes.

After her reading, Keqing returned backstage. Her heart was pounding, but she was smiling.

Then came a surprise—Chen Yuke and Le Yahan performed a mock "literary interview" skit, poking fun at their own writing habits. The audience laughed as Yuke pretended to faint dramatically over a grammar error, and Yahan chased him with a red pen.

Fang Zichen shared the story behind his stage backdrop—how he painted it after reading one of Keqing's drafts. "I wanted the sky to look like the moment before a thought forms," he said simply.

Even Xu Yujin, usually reserved, read a short poem she had never shared before. It was sharp, elegant, and quietly brave.

As they took a short intermission, a few younger students approached their group at the side of the stage.

"You guys made literature feel alive," one boy said, wide-eyed. "Do you always do this?"

"Only when we're slightly sleep-deprived," Yahan joked.

"I liked the bird painting," another added, pointing at the projection. "And the quiet girl's story. It made me think of my grandmother."

Keqing smiled gently. "Thank you."

Back in the audience, a student from Class 10B whispered to her friend, "That's her—the girl who wrote the piece I showed you."

And in the back row, Gu Yuyan's father leaned slightly forward in his seat.

After the curtain fell, the group gathered outside the auditorium, breathless and giddy.

"That mic fail was dramatic," Chen laughed. "But so were you. Poise level: queen."

Keqing shook her head. "I thought I'd freeze."

"You didn't," Gu said, stepping closer. He held something out—a small notebook wrapped in pale blue paper.

She took it carefully. "What is it?"

"Open it later," he said. "It's... something I thought you should have."

As the others packed up, Le Yahan convinced the group to take a group photo on stage.

They posed with their props and scattered pages, laughing through retakes. Even Fang Zichen smiled in one.

"I'm keeping this one," Chen said, holding his phone up triumphantly.

As the crowd thinned, one of the literature teachers approached Keqing, smiling. "Your piece—have you ever considered submitting to the National Young Writers Initiative? I can help you with the application."

Behind them, a soft voice spoke. "Excuse me. Lin Keqing?"

Keqing turned. An older woman stood there, gentle-eyed, holding a laminated program.

"I just wanted to say—your piece reminded me of someone. Years ago, I knew a girl named Lin Wenzhou. She used to write like that."

Keqing's breath caught.

"She was my friend," the woman added. "She would've liked your voice."

And then she left, disappearing into the hallway like a shadow of memory.

That night, back in her room, Keqing opened the notebook Gu had given her.

Inside, on the first page, was a single sentence in careful handwriting:

"You don't just write what you remember. You write what others are afraid to say."

She traced the words with her finger, heart full.

She flipped a few pages further and found a folded note tucked between them. It wasn't Gu's handwriting—this one was older, faded slightly, and signed only with initials: L.W.

"If one day you find this, know that stories do not end—they echo."

Keqing sat for a long time, holding the notebook against her chest.

The curtain had opened—and something deeper had, too.