53: Money in the card, love in the wind

The bell rang.

The invigilator, stopwatch in hand, spoke rapidly:

"Time's up, stop writing."

The emotionless voice of another invigilator sounded,

followed by the grating sound of chairs scraping against the floor,

and the rustle of test papers being swiftly collected.

Lin Que put down his pen and rubbed his slightly sore wrist.

The moment the answer sheet, covered in writing, was taken away, he felt a long-lost sense of exhaustion.

It was as if all the blood he hadn't had time to shed in his previous life had been drained through the tip of his pen.

"Phew—it's finally over!"

Wu Di, next to him, plopped back into his chair,

looking as if he had just been pulled out of water, collapsing onto the desk and wailing in exhaustion:

"It's over, it's over! I didn't even finish the sublimation of my last paragraph!

I had just written 'Teacher Jian Shen's light illuminated me' when the paper was taken away!

Now the light can't reach me, I'm going blind!"

Zhang Ya in the front row put her expensive fountain pen back into her pencil case and said without turning her head:

"Actually, it's not that hard. Just apply Grandpa Namiya's golden quotes from 'worry solver',

and combine them with some current social issues, and the structure will be solid."

She turned around, her gaze lightly sweeping over Lin Que.

"Of course, the premise is not to go off-topic.

This is a serious literary selection, not a ghost story competition."

She looked at Lin Que, a hint of provocation in her eyes:

"Lin Que, are you finished?

You're not still thinking about how to stuff a few ghosts into the letter, are you?

This is the Jieyou Cup selection; going off-topic will result in major deductions."

Lin Que tossed his pen and leaned back:

"Don't worry, this time I wrote something human."

"Human?"

Zhang Ya picked up her school bag as if she had heard a joke.

"I hope the grading teacher can understand your 'human' writing, so you don't get another zero, and Teacher Shen has to bail you out at the Academic Affairs Office."

With that, she hugged her pencil case and turned to leave.

Wu Di leaned over, his face full of worry:

"Brother Que, you really didn't just scribble, did you?

Sister Bing Bing is personally grading this time. If you cause another 'fire,' she might really replace your brain."

Lin Que turned to look out the window.

The autumn sun was a bit harsh, but it couldn't penetrate the deep pool in his eyes.

"Scribble?"

He murmured softly, then turned around.

"This is probably the most serious I've ever written in my life."

...Saturday, Grading Group Office.

The air was filled with the rich scent of tea and the rustling sound of red pens marking paper.

To get the results out as quickly as possible,

all the Chinese language teachers from the second-year high school group were working overtime to grade the papers.

"Oh, I can't take it anymore."

A male teacher with a receding hairline took off his glasses.

"What's wrong with these students?

The topic is 'A Letter,' but six or seven out of ten wrote to their future selves?

The rest are all writing to their deceased grandmothers.

Did all the grandmothers in Jiangcheng collectively suffer a disaster this month?"

Another female teacher also smiled bitterly and echoed:

"Same here. It's all clichés, like 'Teacher Jian Shen said' or 'warm lighthouse'.

It looks very positive, but it reads like plain water, utterly tasteless.

Kids nowadays, to cater to the topic, they don't even care about genuine emotions anymore."

Shen Qingqiu sat by the window, her red pen rising and falling.

She rubbed her throbbing temples,

looking at the identical 'lighthouses,' 'warmth,' and 'redemption' on the papers, feeling a sourness in her stomach.

These kids had turned healing into depressing,

all grand, empty clichés, without a hint of humanity.

She picked up the next test paper.

The name column was blocked by the seal,

but seeing the sharp, powerful handwriting that seemed to pierce through the paper,

Shen Qingqiu's heart suddenly skipped a beat.

It was Lin Que.

She took a deep breath, adjusted her posture, and picked up her red pen.

She was mentally prepared, even if he wrote something rebellious,

as long as the literary merit was acceptable, she would give a passing grade.

After all, asking a student with his personality to write a heartwarming letter was indeed a bit much.

Her gaze fell on the black title.

"A Reply Letter Sent to Heaven"

Shen Qingqiu's fingers paused slightly.

Sent to heaven?

Another death-themed piece?

A wave of disappointment welled up in her heart.

This child was still immersed in that gloomy tone and couldn't break free.

She patiently continued reading.

[Dad, Mom.]

[By the time you read this, I will already be dead.]

The first sentence made Shen Qingqiu's brows furrow into a ' river' character.

How could this child curse himself in an exam essay?

This kind of opening was an absolute taboo in grading!

She suppressed the urge to simply mark it with an 'X' and continued reading.

[Don't cry. Please don't cry.]

[Do you know? Death is not an end, but a long journey. I am now in a very, very high place, where there are no mortgage payments, no calls to rush manuscripts, and no damned old cold legs.]

[From here, I can see our home's window.]

Shen Qingqiu's red pen, which she had been about to put down, hung in mid-air.

The words were plain, without ornate rhetoric or terrifying descriptions.

But for some reason, these lines, as they were read,

felt as if they had weight, pressing heavily on her heart.

[Mom, do you remember last week when I called and told you I had just finished eating braised pork?

Actually, I lied to you.

That day I worked overtime until three in the morning and ate instant noodles.

But I didn't dare to say it, I was afraid you would nag me again about quitting my job.]

[Dad, you always said I wasted money buying those useless figurines.

Actually, I sold all of them, and I saved all the money.

It's in that iron box under my bed, the password is my birthday.

There's 200,000 yuan in there. I originally wanted to come home for Chinese New Year and buy you a house with an elevator.]

[Unfortunately, I left too suddenly and didn't have time to tell you.]

Shen Qingqiu's breathing slowly became more cautious.

This wasn't the horror story she had anticipated, nor was it some fabricated tragedy meant to grab attention.

What emanated from these lines was a suffocating reality.

That sense of reality was as if the author had truly experienced death,

and was truly watching the living from another world, filled with guilt.

[I know you will definitely cry.

Mom, your eyes aren't good; if you cry too much, you won't be able to see the road clearly.

Dad, your blood pressure is high; if you get too excited, your hands will shake.]

[Please, don't let me see you shed tears for me.]

[In this world, tears are the heaviest rain.

If you cry, it will pour here, and I won't be able to fly above the clouds to bask in the sun.]

Shen Qingqiu felt a pang in her nose.

"Tears are the heaviest rain..."

She repeated the sentence softly.

What a peculiar metaphor, yet so gentle.

Was this really written by Lin Que, the one who wrote 'black sun' and 'tearing open wounds'?

The essay continued.

[Even though I'm gone, I haven't disappeared.]

[I will become the first ray of sunlight that falls on the balcony in spring, helping Dad warm his knees.

I will become a gust of wind in autumn, helping Mom dry the washed clothes.]

[So, when the wind blows, when the sun shines on you, that's me hugging you.]

[Dad, Mom, I wasn't a good son in this life.

I was disobedient, I always made you angry, I never got to take you on a plane, I never got to cook you a meal.]

[If there's a next life...]

[Forget it, let there not be a next life.

In the next life, let me be the father, and you be the children.

Let me take care of you, let me work hard to earn money, let me buy you a big house, let me watch you grow up little by little, carefree.]

[Money in the card, love in the wind.]

[Your son's last words.]

After reading the last line,

Shen Qingqiu remained motionless, holding the paper in the same posture for a long time.

Teachers at the next table were discussing how salty the braised pork in the cafeteria was today, and the air conditioner hummed.

Plop.

A drop of water spread on the words "last words",

the black ink spreading like a wound.

Shen Qingqiu instinctively reached out to wipe it,

only to realize her vision was already blurred when her fingertips touched the damp paper.

She took off her glasses, somewhat awkwardly wiping away tears from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

She was a Chinese language teacher, having read countless moving masterpieces.

She thought she had long since developed a heart of stone,

able to calmly examine the structure and techniques of every student's essay.

But today, she broke...