52: The moment the pen touches the paper, it is a farewell.

Friday, the monthly exam.

The air at Jiangcheng No. 1 High School was filled with the tense mixture of academic knowledge and hormones.

In the hallways, the figures that usually chased and played were gone, replaced by walking tape recorders, each clutching a book and muttering to themselves.

In the classroom of grade 11, class 3, the atmosphere was even heavier, like water.

Wu Di sat up straight, hands pressed together, muttering incantations: "When three are long and one is short, choose the shortest; when three are short and one is long, choose the longest; if they are uneven, choose B; if they are irregular, choose D..."

Beside him, Lin Que remained unmoved, slumped over his desk.

"Brother Que, aren't you going to pray a little?" Wu Di poked him with his elbow, lowering his voice.

"This Chinese essay is the deciding factor for who gets to participate in the Jieyou Cup! I heard that if you win the first prize, you get extra points on the College Entrance Examination!"

Lin Que didn't even lift his eyelids, responding vaguely: "Oh."

Watching his attitude of being completely unbothered, Wu Di was so anxious he was scratching his ears and cheeks.

He had heard with his own ears the top student from the next class say that the essay topic Teacher Shen personally created this time was absolute hell-level difficulty, specifically designed to target "crooked paths."

"Ding-dang, ding-dang — dang, dang-dang, dang —" The preparatory bell rang throughout the campus.

The classroom door was pushed open right on time, and Shen Qingqiu walked in, carrying a thick stack of test papers.

She was wearing a simple white shirt today, her long hair pinned up with a wooden hairpin, her expression even colder and more serious than usual.

Her gaze swept across the classroom, finally landing straight on Lin Que.

In those eyes, there was expectation, and there was scrutiny.

She just wanted to see what kind of answer sheet this boy, who had brazenly claimed a few days ago that he had "learned to heal," would turn in today.

The test papers were passed from front to back, leaving only the rustling sound of paper rubbing together in the classroom.

Lin Que received the test paper and slowly wrote his name on it.

He didn't check the essay topic first like everyone else, but started from the first question, working through them at a leisurely pace.

"The falling clouds and the lone duck fly together, ________________."

"________________, only to see the autumn moon white in the center of the river."

...

Poetry fill-in-the-blanks, basic free points, skipped.

The classical Chinese reading comprehension told the story of how an honest official outsmarted a corrupt one. The traps in the options were set quite cleverly, but for Lin Que, who possessed memories of two lifetimes, it was a piece of cake.

The modern prose reading comprehension was an excerpt from an essay; the writing was beautiful and the emotions delicate, exploring the relationship between a person and their hometown.

Lin Que even had the leisure to critique the author's writing style before checking the answer.

The entire process was fluid and natural, so fast that Wu Di, who was still struggling with whether to use the pronunciation 'dang' or 'dang' for "irresistible force," couldn't help but cast a look like he had seen a ghost.

In less than forty minutes, Lin Que had finished all the questions except for the essay.

He stretched, loosened his wrists, and then flipped the test paper to the last page.

Black Song-style characters lay quietly in the center of the test paper.

【 Essay Question (60 points) 】

【 Teacher Jian Shen's "The Miracles of the Namiya General Store" uses letters spanning time and space to light up a lighthouse for countless lost souls. 】

【 A letter is a bridge of communication, a medicine for healing, and a needle and thread to stitch up wounds. 】

【 Each of us has perhaps longed to receive or send such a letter. 】

【 Please write an article of no less than 800 words with the topic "A Letter." The writing style is not limited, except for poetry. 】

The moment they saw the topic clearly, a sound of suppressed gasps echoed throughout the classroom.

"A letter?" Wu Di looked at the theme, completely bewildered.

His mind was blank. How do you write about this? Who do you write to? This topic was just too... too sentimental!

He subconsciously looked at Lin Que, only to find that the other was just quietly looking at the topic, with no expression on his face, unable to tell if he was happy or angry.

Meanwhile, Zhang Ya, sitting in the front row, saw the topic, and her eyes lit up instantly.

This kind of topic was her specialty; parallel sentences, famous quotes, plus a section of emotional sublimation about family, the standard template for a full-score exam essay.

She had even already thought of the three famous quotes from "The Miracles of the Namiya General Store" that she would cite.

She glanced at Lin Que: Writing ghost stories might be eye-catching, but for this kind of assigned essay that requires cultural depth and delicate emotions, can someone with your rough methods understand it?

With this topic now, let's see how you make it up!

A cold smile of certainty curled at the corners of Zhang Ya's mouth. She picked up her pen, and ideas began to flow as if she were inspired.

On the podium, Shen Qingqiu took in the reactions of all the students.

She saw Zhang Ya's confidence, saw the confusion of most students, and finally, her gaze returned to Lin Que.

He remained in that same posture, motionless, like a sculpture.

In her heart, Shen Qingqiu inexplicably breathed a sigh of relief.

This topic was one she had decided upon after deep consideration. It was sufficiently orthodox, sufficiently warm, and sufficiently restrictive.

No matter how unbridled Lin Que's talent was, he had to write within this framework, using the most sincere emotions.

She did not believe that a person's heart could be completely filled with darkness.

Lin Que was indeed spacing out. His thoughts had already drifted far away.

"A letter..." He murmured these words, and what appeared before his eyes was not some kind grandmother, nor some noble hero.

But rather, in his past life, in that tiny rented room, under the dim yellow light, the graying temples of his parents.

He was a screenwriter, a screenwriter who had struggled and crawled in the industry, thinking he had seen through the warmth and coldness of human relationships, and was complacent after earning a little money.

He was used to reporting good news and not the bad, used to saying "Everything is fine" on the phone, used to using expensive gifts to make up for the inability to be there.

He always felt that there was plenty of time, and the future was still far away.

He didn't even have time to have a proper meal with them, or to properly say "I love you."

He didn't even know if his father's old arthritic leg had hurt again during the winter.

He didn't even remember if he had impatiently hung up on his mother because he was rushing to finish a script when she called to tell him to take care of his health.

Those details he ignored, those times he squandered, after his death, turned into branding irons, burning him day and night.

He thought these regrets would be buried forever in another space-time. But he didn't expect that today, they would be dug out defenselessly by such an essay topic.

It turned out that he was the one who wanted to write a letter the most.

Lin Que slowly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the usual laziness and playfulness in his eyes had vanished without a trace.

Replacing them was a settled, deep-sea-like calmness and sorrow.

He understood Shen Qingqiu's intention. She wanted to use the light of "Jian Shen" to illuminate his "poisonous tree."

But she didn't know that whether it was light or darkness, the source was within him.

So be it. Since you all want to see how I "heal," then today, I will personally write a letter and send it to myself.

And also send it to everyone in that world who didn't have time to say goodbye.

He picked up his pen, his wrist steady. The surrounding noise, the classmates writing furiously, the cicadas outside the window—at this moment, they all drifted away from him.

In his world, only the rustling sound of the pen tip touching the paper remained.

Zhang Ya had already filled half a page. She was writing eloquently, feeling so moved by herself that her eyes were a bit moist.

She looked up inadvertently, wanting to see Lin Que's embarrassment, only to find that he had finally started writing.

She curled her lip in disdain. Cramming at the last minute, what kind of thing could he possibly write?

Lin Que did not, like others, first write a "Dear Grandma" or "Dear Heaven."

He simply wrote the title of the letter on the first line of the draft paper: "A reply letter Sent to Heaven."

Then, on the next line, he put down his pen. It was not a greeting, nor was it an outpouring of feelings. It was just a statement, calm enough to be heartbreaking.

"Dad, Mom."

"When you see this sentence, I am already dead."