The rain dripped in a steady rhythm that morning, each droplet leaving a tiny ripple in the puddles along the sidewalk. Yue Xi's umbrella had given out halfway through her walk—one of its ribs twisted under a gust of wind, leaving her half-exposed to the drizzle. Now she walked with her head down, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks, the hem of her blazer plastered to her skin. Every step produced a soft squelch as water seeped into the worn soles of her shoes.
The gates of Shanghai High School loomed ahead, tall and impersonal. Steel bars painted matte black stretched toward a gray sky. To Yue Xi, they felt less like an entrance and more like a barrier—a quiet reminder that she belonged nowhere. She squeezed her transfer form in one hand, the paper damp at the edges. Underneath her, the stone courtyard seemed to shimmer, water pooling between the cracks in the tiles.
Students hurried past her in clusters, their voices weaving together into a single, indistinct hum. Some shielded themselves with bulky coats; others carried umbrellas that tilted and bobbed like nervous birds. No one slowed down to offer guidance. No one even glanced her way. Yue Xi didn't need them to.
She stepped inside the main building, where the scent of disinfectant and damp fabric hit her first. The floors gleamed under fluorescent lights; the air felt cooler, as though the entire hallway were inhaling. Student lockers lined the walls—rows of gray metal punctuated by scuffed corners and stray stickers. She walked down the corridor at a deliberate pace, her shoes clicking softly against tiles. The murmur of conversation faded behind her as she neared the class of 11-3
A corridor clock ticked toward the start of first period. Two minutes to spare.
Yue Xi pushed open the classroom door, and it creaked in protest. The volume inside the room seemed to pause momentarily as heads turned. Thirty pairs of eyes—some curious, some glazed over, a few already clicking keyboards or sketching doodles—shifted briefly before returning to their own worlds.
The teacher—a woman in her late thirties with ash-blonde hair pulled into a precise bun—stood at the front behind a wooden desk stacked with books. Her glasses perched low on her nose. She glanced up from a stack of papers and adjusted her glasses. "You must be Yue Xi," she said, voice even but firm.
Yue Xi nodded once and stepped into the room. The teacher waved a hand toward an empty desk in the back corner, beside a tall window streaked with rain.
"Class, this is Yue Xi. She transferred from Hangzhou High. Treat her with respect."
Murmurs rippled through the seats. Some students shifted in their chairs; a few exchanged quiet guesses about who she might be.
Yue Xi's palms felt clammy. She forced herself to walk down the narrow aisle. The desks were arranged in neat rows—old wooden surfaces scratched from years of use, carved initials and tiny hearts etched into the varnish. Bags and jackets draped over chair backs. A stack of textbooks lay on the corner of the teacher's desk, the title Advanced Literature peeking out from beneath a battered notebook.
As she reached the back corner, she hesitated. Her new desk stood empty, its surface littered with chalk dust and coffee stains from some long-forgotten assignment. Next to it sat a boy in a black hoodie—hood up, head tilted slightly down, headphones looped loosely around his neck, a closed sketchbook resting on the desk in front of him. He didn't look up; his shoulders were still, as if he were carved from stone.
The teacher beckoned. "Chen Yu, you'll be sharing with her."
The boy shifted—just enough to indicate space. A pale hand flicked over the corner of his sketchbook. He tapped the pencil tip twice against the wood grain. Then he pulled the chair out without a word.
Yue Xi slid into the seat, pulling her bag close so it wouldn't touch the wet floor. She kept her back rigid, her eyes fixed on the window. Through the glass, the courtyard looked like a watercolor: blurred trees, empty benches, and the distant silhouette of the goalposts on the athletic field. The rain left winding rivulets, each one tracing its own path downward.
After a moment, the teacher turned back to her notes and resumed the lesson. The chalk scraped gently as it wrote on the blackboard: today's topic, Understanding Symbolism in Modern Poetry. The room filled with the soft scratch of pencils and the low hum of conversation. But Yue Xi couldn't focus on the words. Her mind felt hollow, like a silent room waiting for a voice.
Beside her, Chen Yu didn't take notes. His pen was poised above his sketchbook, as if waiting for inspiration. His headphone wire dangled down, brushing the edge of his desk. Occasionally, his gaze flicked toward Yue Xi, then shifted away before she could register it. She hadn't said a word since walking in.
Lunch Break
The bell rang, and students spilled into the hallway. Many headed to the cafeteria in groups, their laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. There was talk of weekend plans, of assignments due tomorrow, of teachers to avoid. The din grew louder as more students joined the stream.
Yue Xi stayed at her desk until the noise tempered. She watched the crowd thin from the window for a few seconds before slipping out. Her blazer felt cold against her damp shirt, the uniform's fabric heavy on her shoulders. She slid her bag straps over her shoulders and made her way through the aisle. Heads turned again, but she looked straight ahead.
In the hallway, the oppressive scent of wet coats and nervous chatter followed her. She moved without direction until she recognized the sign pointing to the library. The door was slightly ajar, the engraved wooden frame worn smooth from countless hands pushing it open. She stepped inside.
The library smelled of old paper and pine cleaning solution, mixed with something faintly sweet—perhaps the remnants of potpourri by the front desk. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale glow on rows of shelves that stretched toward the ceiling. The floor was carpeted in muted green, patterned with tiny leaves. A few students sat at long wooden tables, heads bent over laptops or books. One boy dozed in a chair by the window, a hardcover novel open on his lap.
Yue Xi drifted between the aisles until she found a narrow table by a large window. A single desk lamp stood at the far end, its light peeking through raindrops on the glass. Outside, the garden looked like a painting: slick stone paths winding around low hedges, droplets clinging to petals of small purple flowers.
She slid into the chair and placed her bag beside her. Gently, she rested her hand on the cool surface of the window frame. For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the hushed silence envelop her. The soft hum of the air conditioner, the muffled turning of pages—it was all a comforting lullaby.
Just as she was beginning to relax, the quiet shifted.
"That's my seat."
Her eyes opened. He stood at the end of the table: Chen Yu. Hoodie damp at the shoulders, sketchbook still under his arm. His gaze met hers, and it felt like a gentle tug at her chest. He paused a heartbeat, studying her with an intensity she couldn't place.
She paused, then lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. "I didn't see your name on it."
He half-smiled. "That's fair."
Instead of leaving, he placed the sketchbook on the table and pulled out the chair opposite her. The sound of wood against carpet was almost too quiet to hear. He sat and opened the book, revealing a page of neat, precise lines—an unfinished sketch of a night sky, stars rendered as tiny dots amongst swirling dark strokes.
He tapped the page with a pencil and spoke before she could. "You're not from around here."
His tone was casual, but there was curiosity there—like he was examining a rare photograph of someone he only half-recognized.
She gazed at the raindrops outside. "Is it that obvious?"
He leaned back, head tilted slightly. "There's a way you look at hallways. Like you know when they'll end."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She shifted, folding her arms on the table. "I find them comforting."
"Comforting?" He set the pencil down. For a moment, he watched her as if trying to memorize every detail. "I'd expect most people to find them… confusing."
"Depends on the hallway," she said softly. "Some feel endless. Others feel like they're built just for you."
He nodded, as though he'd heard exactly what he needed. Then he asked, "Where did you transfer from?"
"Hangzhou High School."
He didn't say anything right away. Instead, he glanced at her hair, still damp around her temples. "Your hair—did you walk through rain?"
She shrugged. "Don't want to carry wet coats around."
He nodded again. "Thought so." He turned to the next blank page in his sketchbook and tapped a dot with his pencil. "What did Shíyǔ look like?"
Her gaze sharpened, but she kept her voice even. "Smaller than here. Less open space."
He eyed her thoughtfully. "You miss it?"
Her chest tightened. She didn't answer.
A brief silence settled. He looked at her from beneath his hood, gray eyes like a storm about to break. Then he said quietly, "Your last name's Yue."
She paused, finger brushing against the chain of her necklace—hidden beneath her shirt. "Yes."
He flipped the book closed, nudging it to one side. "My father once talked about someone with that name. A Yue Wen." He studied her face. "He said she was brilliant. Quiet. Then she vanished."
Her breath caught. She stared at him, pulse echoing in her ears. This was the first time anyone had mentioned that name in years.
"Maybe… maybe I've never known a Yue Wen," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't push. He just folded his arms on the edge of the table and looked at her as if he was deciphering a cipher.
"You look… familiar," he said after a moment. "Like I've seen you before."
She avoided his eyes. "Maybe I just have one of those faces."
"No" he said. "Not your face. Your name. The way you said it. Like you don't want it to belong to it.
That startled her more than it should have.
That was all he said. He closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and stood. The wooden chair scraped softly.
She watched him go, her heart beating louder than the rain outside. When he reached the door, he paused and glanced back—just once—and gave a slight nod before disappearing down the hallway.
Back in Class
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the wet windowpanes as she slipped back into her seat. The teacher's voice droned on about metaphors, but Yue Xi barely heard it. Her mind replayed that last look from Chen Yu—curious, probing, almost gentle.
She noticed things she hadn't before: the faded motivational posters on the walls, the chalk smudges near the blackboard edges, the way the fluorescent lights flickered when someone in the back row dropped a pencil. Desks shifted as students leaned over to whisper about homework; phones buzzed in pockets.
Chen Yu sat down beside her without a word. His hoodie still smelled faintly of damp fabric; he'd left his sketchbook on his desk, closed and waiting. She met his eyes briefly, then looked away.
When the bell rang to signal the end of class, a few classmates called out her name, eager to make small talk: "Hey, are you going to the club fair?" "Do you know where to get lunch around here?" But she had already gathered her bag and slipped out of the room. She walked past rows of curious faces—some smiling, some indifferent—but her focus was on the window, where the courtyard glimmered in the late afternoon light.
She took one last glance back at Chen Yu before turning the corner.
He was watching her go.
Outside, the rain had finally eased. The pavement shone like polished stone. A thin sunbeam broke through the clouds, casting a silver path across the courtyard. She hesitated, then walked into that sliver of light, letting it guide her steps toward the unknown halls of Shanghai High.