The house where Su Yue lived with her mother seemed smaller with each passing year.It was not only because of the space — just two rooms, peeling walls, the ceiling creaking whenever it rained.It was because of the invisible weight of stacked bills, endless extra hours of work, nights when dinner amounted to nothing more than a thin broth and a piece of bread.
Her mother mended old clothes until the fabric could no longer hold another stitch.At just fourteen, Su Yue already helped: fixing hems, sewing on buttons, delivering finished pieces around the neighborhood.And still, she found time to tutor two younger children nearby, earning a few coins she kept in a small iron box hidden under her bed.
At school, the teachers praised her.She was the best student — the one with perfect grades, the one who always raised her hand to answer.But her classmates looked at her sideways, whispering about her worn uniform, the simple lunch she brought from home, the quiet demeanor that made her invisible in their circles.To shine in books cost her loneliness in the corridors.
One night, as she finished her exercises, she realized her notebook was filled to the last page.Every sheet was covered — lessons, notes, and also the scattered words she wrote in secret, as if they were confidences.She glanced at her mother, bent over the sewing, exhausted.She did not have the courage to ask for another.
The next morning, she walked alone to the stationery shop.The shelves overflowed with colorful notebooks, glossy hardcovers adorned with heroes, flowers, and cartoons.But Su Yue went straight to the hidden corner, where the cheapest ones lay: plain covers, thin paper.She picked a light-blue one and brought it to the counter.
The clerk looked up, raising an eyebrow.— Always the cheapest, isn't it? Are you sure you can pay for it?
Two students nearby chuckled under their breath.Su Yue's face burned.She clenched the coins in her hand and whispered:— I'll take it.
The woman scoffed.— That kind of notebook won't last long. But of course… that's what you can afford.
Before Su Yue could reply, a firm voice rang out behind her:— Wrap up two of those — the hardcover ones. And add some pens.
The clerk froze.— But…
— Now. — The tone wasn't raised, but its dry weight silenced the entire shop.
Su Yue turned.A tall boy, uniform immaculate, thin-framed glasses.He didn't look at her — only at the clerk, as if his presence alone was enough to command.
The woman obeyed, wrapping the notebooks and pens before pushing the package forward.The boy took it, then, without a change of expression, held it out to her.
— Take it. — That was all he said.
Su Yue hesitated, glancing at the coins in her palm.— But I… I can't…
— You don't need to. — The answer was sharp, firm, leaving no space for refusal.
She reached out, took the package, and hurried out, her heart racing.On the sidewalk, she clutched the bundle against her chest, surprised by its unexpected weight: these were not the simple notebooks she had chosen, but far better than she would ever dare to buy.She couldn't explain why, but it felt like she carried more than just paper and ink.
Behind the glass, Zhou Yichen watched her for a few moments before turning away.He didn't give his name.He didn't ask for anything in return.He simply let her go, until she vanished around the corner.
Zhou Yichen's house was far too large for one person.Endless hallways, expensive furniture, perfectly aligned paintings.But not a single smiling photograph on the walls.
His father was always present — rigid, demanding, punctual.Expecting flawless grades, impeccable posture, absolute discipline.But never offering a hug or a word of comfort.The greater absence, however, was his mother, who had left too soon.Since then, the house seemed to have lost all its colors.
The piano in the living room was his only companion.Sometimes, as his fingers slid over the keys, he thought he could hear the memory of his mother's voice — soft, like a breeze passing quickly.But as soon as his father entered, the spell broke.— Focus. Play properly. — The dry voice filled the air.
That night, Yichen shut himself in his room, pushed the books aside, and sat at the piano.The notes that came forth did not follow any sheet music.And between one melody and another, he remembered the girl.The way she held the package.The frightened yet steady look in her eyes.
He didn't know her name.She didn't know his.But, for the first time in a long while, Zhou Yichen did not feel entirely alone.
And the invisible thread, silent and patient, tightened once more.