Some words were never meant to be heard.
They slipped through the cracks between footsteps and whispers,
meant only for those who thought no one was listening.
But someone was.
Not a ghost, not a shadow—something sharper.
She didn't cough, didn't shift, didn't blink.
Just listened.
The truth didn't need to shout to be dangerous.
It only needed one person to remember.
And she did.
September 7 , 2000
The classroom buzzed with soft murmurs, sunlight filtering through half-open windows and pooling across the wooden desks. Each desk was stacked with thick textbooks—math, Chinese literature, English vocabulary drills—all arranged with robotic precision. A neatly folded uniform lay on the corner of every seat, waiting for the next round of physical training.
On the walls, faded red banners with bold white characters hung like silent judges:
> "Study hard, make progress every day."
"Three years of sweat for a lifetime of glory."
The kind of pressure you couldn't see, but always felt.
Su Nian sat by the window, the one spot where the light touched her without warming her. Her head was low, eyes unfocused, though they stayed fixed on the blackboard, where formulas from the last class still lingered in chalk dust. Her heart hadn't really returned to the room.
That's when the classroom door creaked open.
A new presence stepped in—not with hesitation, but with the kind of ease that made people look up.
She wasn't wearing her uniform properly—jacket slung over one shoulder, school badge nowhere in sight. Short hair slightly messy, one side of her collar rumpled like she'd gotten into something on the way here. A band-aid crossed the bridge of her nose, and her expression? Cool. Unbothered.
Jiang Moxi didn't wait for permission.
She scanned the room once, then headed straight down the aisle, ignoring the stares, the whispers, and the slightly raised eyebrows.
When she reached Su Nian's desk, she dropped her bag beside the empty seat without asking. Then she sat down with a soft thud, the chair scraping across tile like it had every right to.
Su Nian looked up, startled, as Jiang Moxi leaned back in the chair and turned to her with a raised brow.
"Is this seat taken?"
Her tone was low, steady. Not rude. Not polite either. Just… her own.
Su Nian quickly shook her head. "No."
A few classmates turned to glance, whispering behind their hands, but the approaching footsteps of their homeroom teacher quickly silenced the noise.
Jiang Moxi didn't seem to notice—or maybe she just didn't care. She folded her arms on the desk, glancing sideways at Su Nian with an unreadable expression.
"Don't bother about them," she said under her breath. "Let them stare. That's all they know how to do."
Su Nian blinked. Her lips parted slightly.
"Thanks… for earlier."
Jiang Moxi gave a faint smirk. "Don't mention it. Just hate seeing people drop their stuff and pretend nothing happened."
Then, leaning closer, she added in a teasing whisper:
> "By the way—if the teacher asks, I've totally got my school badge. Don't blow my cover, alright?"
Su Nian let out the tiniest laugh, one hand rising to cover it before it could escape too loud. It felt strange—smiling like this, after everything that had happened today.
The bell rang, sharp and clean. The teacher entered with a clipboard in hand and a tired expression that meant business.
As the classroom shifted into silence, Su Nian glanced sideways one last time.
Jiang Moxi had already slouched down in her seat like she'd been there for years.
And somehow, just by sitting there, she made the room feel a little less cold.
The period dragged on.
Equations turned into noise, chalk into static. Su Nian tried to copy the notes on the board, but her hand moved slower than her thoughts.
Behind her, she could still feel it—the weight of judgment. Some classmates scribbled in their books; others snuck glances. No one said anything out loud, but that was the thing about silence.
It carried more than words ever could.
Then—
> A knock.
Not on the door. On the teacher's desk.
It was Jiang Moxi.
Even the teacher looked surprised.
She stood up slowly, like someone stretching after a long nap. One hand in her pocket, the other holding Su Nian's notebook.
> "This has been bothering me," she said, voice casual.
> "You're the homeroom teacher, right? You've seen all our handwriting at some point."
The teacher frowned. "Yes. Why?"
Jiang Moxi flipped the notebook open to that page—the one that had haunted Su Nian for days.
> "Take a look at this," she said, then pulled out a second notebook from her desk.
It wasn't Su Nian's.
It was Wang Zixuan's math notes. One of the pages had slipped from his bag earlier, and Jiang Moxi had picked it up without a word.
Now she placed both open books side by side on the desk.
The comparison was subtle—but damning.
> The curve of the "y".
The way the comma leaned slightly left.
The same thick pen pressure at the tail end of each sentence.
Even the sarcastic tilt in the wording felt familiar.
> "Funny thing," she said quietly, "I noticed this during lunch break yesterday. When I stayed back to clean the paint brushes in the art room."
Her gaze didn't shift from the teacher—but her words found their mark.
> "I saw someone scribble in a notebook on Su Nian's desk. I didn't think much of it. But after seeing her get called out, I remembered."
She finally turned.
> "Wang Zixuan."
A pin could've dropped.
He shifted in his seat, lips twitching—but no words came out.
The teacher picked up both notebooks again, brows furrowing deeper with each second.
Someone in the back whispered, "Whoa…"
Jiang Moxi gave a half-shrug.
> "You can check the surveillance camera near the window. I'm guessing it still works."
The teacher looked up, stunned.
Zixuan opened his mouth—then shut it again, jaw clenched.
"Is this true?" the teacher asked, voice stern now.
Zixuan didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The silence spoke for him.
> Jiang Moxi didn't smirk.
Didn't gloat.
Just walked back to her seat beside Su Nian and dropped the notebook like it weighed nothing.
Su Nian stared at her, wide-eyed.
> "Why…" she started. "Why did you—?"
> Jiang Moxi rested her chin on her palm. "Told you. I don't like people who pretend to be innocent after making someone else bleed."
Then she leaned closer, voice barely audible:
> "Besides… You looked like you needed someone to say it out loud."
The bell rang again.
But this time, Su Nian didn't feel small when it did.
The teacher set the notebooks down.
His face, usually unreadable behind glasses and fatigue, now held something rare—hesitation.
He cleared his throat.
"Su Nian," he said.
She froze.
"Come here."
She stood slowly, unsure if her legs would hold. Her palms felt cold. She stepped up to the front, every eye behind her digging like splinters into her spine.
The teacher looked at her—really looked this time.
"I made a mistake."
The words weren't loud, but they didn't need to be. They rippled through the silence like a dropped stone.
"I judged without verifying. I accepted what was shown to me… and not what might have been done to you."
A pause.
"You were wrongly blamed. That shouldn't have happened."
He bowed his head slightly—not a full bow, but enough for every student to understand what it meant.
"Return to your seat."
Su Nian could barely breathe.
No dramatic claps. No cheers. Just a quiet shift in the room's air—something fragile but real.
When she sat down again, Jiang Moxi gave her a sidelong glance and slid a piece of candy onto her desk under the cover of her sleeve.
"Peppermint," she muttered. "It helps when people finally get their heads out of their—"
Su Nian laughed softly before she could finish the sentence.
For the first time in a long while, her notebook didn't feel like a burden.
When the final bell rang, chairs scraped and notebooks slammed shut, but no one spoke.
Not yet.
Wang Zixuan stood up too quickly, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor. His face was stone—but his hands were clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone pale.
He didn't look at Su Nian. Not once.
He just walked out. Fast. Shoulders stiff, ears burning.
But before he disappeared through the doorway, he paused. Just for a second.
Not to turn. Not to speak.
Just to feel the weight of the shift he couldn't undo.
Then he was gone.
---
Su Nian lingered by her desk, slowly placing each book into her bag. Around her, classmates murmured in low voices—no longer ignoring her, but not quite talking to her either. She didn't mind.
Not today.
Jiang Moxi stretched in her chair like a cat, arms behind her head. "Told you," she muttered.
Su Nian turned to her.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly. "You didn't even know me."
Jiang Moxi raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. Which means I didn't owe you anything either. So if I still did it... what does that tell you?"
Su Nian blinked, caught off guard.
Jiang Moxi stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "Some people wait for heroes. Some people just… stop waiting and handle things themselves."
Then, after a beat, she added without looking:
> "You looked like someone who needed a second chance. Not pity. Just a little balance."
Su Nian followed her outside, the hallway unusually quiet as other students filtered past them in small groups.
They walked together in silence for a while, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the floor.
Just before they reached the stairs, Jiang Moxi slowed.
> "He won't say sorry, you know."
Su Nian nodded. "I know."
> "Good. That saves us time."
Su Nian laughed softly again. That made Jiang Moxi glance sideways, lips twitching into something that almost looked like approval.
Before walking off, Jiang Moxi tossed her one last look over her shoulder.
> "You coming tomorrow?"
Su Nian blinked. "Of course."
> "Good. I don't like sitting next to ghosts."
Then she disappeared down the hall, hands in her pockets, leaving Su Nian behind with a heart a little lighter than before.