Chapter 15: The Echo Between Us
Mid-October wrapped the school in a quiet gold.
The leaves outside turned brittle, and the afternoon light stretched longer than it used to—soft, sleepy, forgiving.
Class 2-B settled into routine.
The air smelled of paper, ink, and worn-out ambition.
But in the back row, the Twin Ghosts kept their rhythm.
Unshaken. Unspoken. Unchanging.
That day in P.E., the coach divided the class into two teams for relay sprints.
Mu Yichen stood at the edge of the line, motionless. He hated running.
Not because he couldn't.
But because his body remembered too much.
Every muscle whispered memory.
Of medals, stadiums, cameras.
Of being perfect.
So he ran just fast enough not to be noticed.
Fell behind on purpose.
Let the cheers wash over others instead.
Han Seri, on the other hand, never ran.
She'd always been excused—doctor's note, the teacher said.
She watched from the bench, scribbling quietly in her notebook, invisible in plain sight.
But today, the note was missing from the file.
A clerical error, probably.
No one cared.
"You'll join the next round," the coach barked.
She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came.
Someone shoved a baton into her hand.
"Just finish the lap, Ghost Girl."
The whistle blew.
She ran.
Badly. Unbalanced.
Too many eyes. Too much noise.
Her foot caught on the track's edge—
And she fell.
Hard.
A sharp gasp from the class.
Some laughed.
"She's made of paper!"
"Did you see that dive?"
She didn't cry.
Didn't get up.
Not yet.
Then…
A shadow crossed the sun.
Mu Yichen had already moved.
No hesitation. No expression.
He crouched beside her, gently took the baton from her shaking hand, and stood.
Not a word spoken.
He finished her lap.
Didn't run fast. Didn't try to impress.
He just ran.
And when he crossed the line,
he placed the baton down, turned back, and walked toward her again.
She was still sitting. Clutching her knee.
He knelt.
Reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a small packet—a disposable bandage.
Without asking,
he cleaned the scrape and pressed it gently against her skin.
Only then did he speak.
"Don't let them teach you to be ashamed of falling."
She looked up at him.
Not crying.
But not dry-eyed either.
And he walked away.
They didn't speak again that day.
At lunch, she went to the peach tree.
He returned to the staircase.
But that night, in her notebook, she wrote just two words:
"Thank you."
And that same night, in his old sketchpad—the one he never opened anymore
Mu Yichen drew a single thing:
A crumpled paper baton,
taped back together
and held by two hands that never touched.