Notes of Youth

The morning after the performance, Lin Keqing walked into school with a quiet sense of weightlessness. The sky was overcast, pale gray with hints of sun struggling to break through. Her phone buzzed with messages—congratulations, requests for her piece, even a voice note from a junior student asking if she could share advice for writing.

But her steps led her somewhere else—somewhere quieter.

She found herself in the common room during the first break, nearly empty except for the hum of the heater and the rustle of papers. She pulled out the notebook Gu Yuyan had given her the night before. The words still echoed:

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

She reread them again, slowly. Then turned the page.

A folded photograph slipped out.

It was an old image of the school library, printed in faded color. But what caught her attention wasn't the building—it was the girl sitting by the window. Hair tied back. A ginkgo leaf between her fingers. And in the corner, scrawled in small ink: "L.W. – Autumn, 2007."

During literature club that afternoon, everyone was still riding the wave of excitement. Someone brought cookies, another played a recording of the performance.

"I looked like a lost squirrel on stage," Chen Yuke groaned.

"No," Fang Zichen replied. "Squirrels are more graceful."

Le Yahan laughed, but her smile dimmed a little when Chen didn't look her way.

"You were great," she said, softer now.

He nodded, but something lingered in the silence between them. After the others left, Yahan lingered behind.

"Why didn't you tell me it bothered you?" she asked.

Chen paused, closing his notebook. "Because I didn't want to ruin it for you. You were shining up there."

"But I want the truth. Not politeness."

He looked at her, finally. "Then the truth is—I felt like I was watching you drift further away. Like I was the only one who noticed the silence when the curtain fell."

Yahan swallowed. "Then maybe we should learn how to listen again."

The next day, as winter crept closer, the school announced the annual "Winter Reading & Reflection" event. Each class would contribute either a short reading, a visual piece, or a discussion panel.

Keqing was asked to represent her class. She agreed, but quietly asked to prepare something new.

That afternoon, Gu Yuyan met her in the library. He brought an old book he'd borrowed weeks ago, and quietly slid it across the table.

"Look inside," he said.

She did. Pressed between the pages was a ginkgo leaf, perfectly preserved.

"Where did you get it?"

"Same place you found yours, probably," he replied. "But mine was already there. When I found it, I thought of you."

Keqing held the leaf gently, surprised by how much it felt like a message. Again.

She looked at him. "Do you know who L.W. is?"

He hesitated. Then shook his head. "No. But I think someone does."

On Saturday, Keqing returned to the school with Le Yahan and Fang Zichen to prepare the library space for the reading event. While organizing the archives shelf, she noticed a younger student flipping through an old edition of the school's literary journal.

"Hey," Keqing asked, "can I see that?"

The student handed it over. Inside, under a pseudonym, was a story signed only with "L.W."

The student added, "There were a bunch like that. Nobody knew who it was, but the teachers said it was a girl who graduated years ago."

Intrigued, Keqing returned to the upper floor—the restricted archives she'd discovered once before. She found the same filing box: "Unpublished Manuscripts – 2003–2008."

But this time, she opened a second box beneath it. Inside, yellowed folders, handwritten notes, and a few drawings.

One file caught her eye: "The Distance Between Words" – by Lin Wenzhou.

Her fingers trembled slightly. This was no longer just about writing. It was a thread winding through time.

That evening, after leaving school, Keqing walked the long way home. The city lights shimmered in puddles on the pavement, and the chill in the air felt almost gentle. She passed by the little tea shop where she and her grandmother sometimes sat.

Today, the shop door opened and a familiar figure stepped out—her father.

She froze. He looked surprised too, then gave a small smile.

"You have time for tea?" he asked.

She nodded, unsure why.

Inside, the shop was warm, steeped in steam and cinnamon.

They didn't talk much. But when he reached into his coat and handed her an envelope, she blinked.

Inside was an old letter—folded and refolded many times. "I found this in an old drawer at your grandfather's house," he said. "I think it was meant for your mother. It's signed 'Wenzhou.'"

Keqing stared at the signature.

So it was real.

That night, she sat in bed with all the pieces: the letter, the photo, the notebook, the stories. She was no longer just writing for herself.

She was continuing a conversation that someone had started long ago.

And slowly, as she opened her laptop to type again, the first line formed in her head:

"There are stories that wait quietly. And then there are those that find you when you're ready."