Notes of Youth

The sun peeked through a soft veil of clouds as Class 11A1 gathered near the school gates, wrapped in scarves and layered jackets. A winter chill hung in the air, but there was a quiet excitement as students chatted and adjusted backpacks for the short school-organized winter walk through the nearby park reserve.

"Don't forget your sketchbooks! And bring a pen!" Le Yahan called out, juggling her own scarf and a clipboard. She and Chen Yuke had volunteered to help with the organizing committee and were now handing out route maps and activity sheets.

"What exactly are we doing again?" Fang Zichen asked, already scribbling something on his map.

"Observational journaling," Xu Yujin replied, tucking her notebook under one arm. "You're supposed to walk, watch, and write. Nature, people, light, thoughts. Anything."

Keqing stood quietly, adjusting her camera strap. She wasn't sure what she was hoping to capture yet—the landscape, perhaps, or the flicker of something unspoken between friends.

Nearby, Tran Vuka leaned on a tree, humming a tune under his breath. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the side of his bag, lost in his own world. He caught Keqing's glance, gave a polite nod, and looked away.

Just before they departed, a new voice joined the mix.

"Are we walking in groups, or is this another 'wander until inspired' thing?"

Liu Tianxue.

She adjusted her gloves, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp as always. Though she was in the same class, she rarely interacted beyond formalities. Today, she fell into step not far from Keqing.

The park unfolded like a storybook left open in the snow. Bare branches stretched overhead, and the frozen lake mirrored the pale gray sky. Breath clouded in the air as the students began their walk.

Gu Yuyan walked ahead, hands in his coat pockets. He didn't speak, but every so often, he'd stop and jot something into a small, leather-bound notebook.

Keqing paused at a low bench, snapping a photo of the way sunlight filtered through frosty leaves. Beside her, Liu Tianxue was writing quickly.

"What did you notice?" Tianxue asked, without looking up.

"The way the light touches the edge of things," Keqing replied honestly.

Tianxue glanced at her. "Hmm. Poetic."

It wasn't praise or mockery—more like a statement. She turned back to her notebook.

Later, they regrouped near a small stone bridge. Le Yahan and Chen Yuke were bickering over a route change, while Fang Zichen sketched the curve of the stream.

"Hey," Yahan called, waving Keqing over. "You should take a photo from the bridge—it's kind of magical."

Keqing moved to the spot, just as Gu Yuyan stepped aside to let her pass.

"It suits you," he said quietly, looking toward the frame she was lining up.

"What does?"

"This kind of quiet."

She blinked. Before she could respond, he was already stepping away.

Midway through the walk, they stopped at a clearing with wooden picnic tables dusted with frost. Hot tea had been brought in thermoses, and Yuke handed out cups while grumbling about his frozen hands.

Fang Zichen opened his sketchbook to show a cartoon version of their walk so far: tiny students trudging through snow, Chen Yuke with tea, and a dramatic speech bubble from Le Yahan saying, "Art or nothing!"

Laughter bubbled up around the table.

Even Liu Tianxue allowed herself a small smile.

Then someone from another class walked past, holding a notebook open. "Hey, did anyone lose this?"

Keqing looked over. The cover was familiar—it was a small notebook she'd used weeks ago, thought she had lost. The student handed it to her with a curious glance.

Inside were pages of thoughts, fragments of essays, and an unfinished piece titled The Door That Waited.

Keqing clutched it to her chest, uncertain how it had ended up out here.

After the walk, as students trickled back toward the school, a car pulled up near the gate. A woman stepped out—elegant in a simple wool coat, her expression gentle but distant.

Gu Yuyan approached her slowly. They exchanged a few words too quiet to hear.

Keqing, standing nearby, watched from a respectful distance.

Then Gu turned slightly. "Lin Keqing, this is my mother."

Keqing was caught off guard, but bowed slightly. "Hello."

His mother smiled faintly. "I've heard about your writing. Yuyan mentioned your work was honest. That's rare. Keep going."

"Thank you," Keqing replied softly.

The woman nodded and turned back to her son. Keqing stepped away, heart fluttering from the unexpected moment.

Later that evening, Keqing sat by her window, the photos from the walk laid out before her. Her fingers hovered over one: a picture of the bridge, where light spilled like gold over frost.

She flipped open her journal and began to write. Not for a contest. Not for school.

Just because something inside her felt seen.

Across the city, Gu Yuyan sat with the same notebook he'd carried all day. He had written no more than two lines.

But he opened to a new page.

And began again.