Notes of Youth

Snow hadn't yet fallen, but the sky hinted at it. A pale hush hung over the school grounds as students rushed between classes, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Lin Keqing stood by the classroom window before the morning bell, watching a small flock of birds scatter across the gray clouds.

Inside her bag was a folder labeled Wenzhou. The letter from her father. The old photograph. The short story titled The Distance Between Words. She hadn't shown anyone—not yet. It still felt like something sacred.

The week following the showcase was full of preparation. The school-wide event Winter Reading & Reflection had been announced, and each class was given a theme. 11A1's: "Echoes of the Unsaid."

Fitting.

Mr. Ha, their homeroom teacher, gently encouraged Keqing to lead the scriptwriting. "You have a quiet way of making things heard," he said with a smile.

She nodded, both flattered and slightly nervous.

During literature club that afternoon, the group gathered in the library's warm reading alcove, shielding themselves from the wind. Blank pages, sticky notes, and mugs of warm soy milk cluttered the table.

"We should include multiple voices," Fang Zichen suggested. "Different kinds of unsaid things. Not just sadness."

"I want to write about almosts," said Xu Yujin softly. "The things that could've been."

Le Yahan and Chen Yuke sat side by side, noticeably quieter than usual. They exchanged looks but said little.

That evening, as the sky darkened early, Gu Yuyan waited for Keqing outside the library steps. When she stepped out, surprised to see him, he simply said, "Want to walk?"

She hesitated. Then nodded.

They strolled slowly past the main building, through the path lined with leafless trees. Gu kept his hands in his pockets, eyes forward.

"My dad's been staying in the city," he said. "He comes home more often now. My mom says it's a good thing."

Keqing listened, quiet.

"But I don't know," he added. "He left when I was eleven. I remember the silence more than anything. Like he took all the noise with him."

Keqing turned to him. "Do you want him back?"

Gu shrugged. "I want to understand him. That's all."

They reached the edge of the school garden. A single light flickered near the flagpole.

Gu turned to her. "Can I ask you something?"

She looked up.

"If someone's story isn't finished, do you think someone else can continue it?"

Keqing held his gaze. "Yes. If it's still alive in someone's heart."

He nodded, as if something settled.

On Friday, the rehearsal for 11A1's winter performance took place in the auditorium. The group had decided on a blend of dramatic readings, live sketching, and short monologues. Keqing had stayed up late drafting her segment—but she kept a part of it secret.

While the others took turns rehearsing, she sat backstage flipping through The Distance Between Words. Lin Wenzhou's words still stung:

"I wrote a thousand letters I never sent. I folded them into dreams and left them under books."

Her hand trembled slightly. Then she pulled out her laptop and began typing a new piece—an adapted version of Wenzhou's writing, interwoven with her own reflections.

She titled it: "To the Girl Who Was Almost Forgotten."

The next day, a rare Saturday practice was held. As students gathered again, the first flakes of snow drifted down—light, tentative.

Yahan looked up. "It's snowing."

Everyone turned to the window. Even Zichen smiled faintly.

Chen Yuke tapped Yahan's shoulder. "I made edits to your part. Want to review them with me?"

She nodded, surprised. As they moved to the corner of the room, Fang Zichen raised his brows at Keqing. "They needed that."

During break, Tran Vuka quietly wandered to the music room down the hall. From inside, the soft melody of piano began to flow—light, melancholic, but beautiful. It drifted through the corridor, and a few students, including Keqing, paused to listen.

"Is that him?" Yahan whispered.

Keqing nodded. "It's always him."

They stood there for a moment, wrapped in the warmth of the music, the snow brushing against the windowpanes like a forgotten lullaby.

Later that afternoon, while the others packed up, Keqing slipped away to the third floor archive. Her heart led her back to the filing box.

This time, she wasn't alone. A librarian assistant was there—a girl in her twenties who'd graduated from the same school.

"Oh, you're looking at Wenzhou's work?" she asked.

Keqing blinked. "You know her?"

The girl smiled. "I was a freshman when she was a senior. She was quiet. Brilliant. She used to write late into the night in this library. Some say she left because of family issues, others say it was health. Nobody knows exactly."

Keqing clutched the folder tighter.

"She once told me," the girl continued, "that stories don't save you. But they hold you until something does."

That night, Keqing wrote for hours. In her piece, she weaved the fragility of Wenzhou's past with her own journey—the library notes, the ginkgo leaves, the silence she had broken on stage. She didn't ask permission. She simply knew: some stories ask to be remembered.

Before going to sleep, she folded the piece into an envelope, addressed it to "11A1 Winter Showcase Team," and slipped it into Mr. Ha's inbox the next morning.

She didn't sign her name.

On her way to class, a new note had been slipped into her locker—unsigned, typewritten.

"The ones we remember are never truly gone. Keep writing. – L.W."

She stared at it for a long moment, heart pounding.

Who still remembered Wenzhou? Who else was reading?