The old library at Qingcheng No.2 had a distinct smell: the must of aged pages mixed with the faint freshness of wooden shelves. The ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring dust into sleepy beams of light. At four in the afternoon the seats by the window were always best; the slanted sun cut the oak table into gentle squares. Lin Yichen curled up in the corner, his camera bag leaning against the table leg, spinning a nearly dry blue ballpoint between his fingers, a copy of A World History of Photography open before him.
He glanced out the window; a few early-fallen ginkgo leaves clung to the glass, their veins translucent in the light. He was about to lower his head and return to reading Bresson on composition when the chair beside him scraped softly — Su Ziyan had arrived. She leaned her heavy drawing board against the chair back, her ponytail loosely tied, a sheen of sweat at her hairline as if she'd jogged from the studio. She opened a vividly colored art book; her brushstrokes were bold, the pages turning so softly they sounded like wind across paper, lifting a corner of his book.
The library felt like an island of quiet: the fan's hum, pages turning, the scratch of pencils — a near-sacred backdrop. Lin Yichen kept his head down, but his peripheral vision kept drifting to her focused hands and lightly furrowed brow. Blue paint had dried on her knuckles; her movements were rhythmic and intent, as if the world had narrowed to paper and tip.
Just as calm settled, Yu Bo burst in from the corridor, announcing that the art club and photo club were holding a joint sketching trip that afternoon to the pine grove on the west outskirts. Startled, Lin Yichen knocked a lens cap under the table. Yu Bo, loud and irreverent as always, fished half a pack of cookies from his drawer and shoved two at him as a "perk." Yichen screwed the lens cap back on and zipped his camera bag with practiced calm.
Outside the car window, light streaked by. In the pine grove resin, earth, and needles mingled into a sharp, clean scent. Art students set up easels, photographers surveyed angles. Yichen stayed away from the clusters, following a shallow stream deeper into the trees. The trickle of water, dappled beams, moss-covered deadwood framed themselves in his viewfinder: a protruding log, a few birds at a puddle, sunlight sifted through needles like stage spots.
He clicked a few frames, absorbed in composition, when scattered footsteps reached him. On the opposite bank beneath a gnarled pine, Su Ziyan sat on a small stool, her board propped, charcoal moving across paper. She glanced up at him now and then, brow slightly tensed, as if undecided about something. Yichen's heart skipped; he wanted to raise his camera and capture her — focused in dappled light, charcoal poised midair, sunlight gilding her profile — but hesitated. The attention from that track-and-field photo had made him cautious; he didn't want to intrude.
She waved, calling through the water's murmur, "Lin Yichen!" He froze, set down his camera, and answered sheepishly, "Mm?" She pointed behind him, then to her easel, politely asking if he could move — he was blocking her view of the tree. He stepped back a couple of paces to lean against a nearer trunk. She smiled in thanks and bent fully into her drawing.
He watched her sketch the bark's texture, occasionally making quick strokes himself. Wind lifted stray hair from her forehead; sweat tracked at her temple. Watching her draw in silence felt more comforting than any photograph. A sudden gust sent pine needles drifting like fine rain, some landing in her hair and on the paper. Yichen's fingers twitched to brush them away, then stayed still.
When she paused to change paper, hesitation crossed her face. Then she said she wanted to draw him — could he stand still as a quick model? Yichen flushed, stiff as a board. Her smile was gentle; her tone upbeat: "Just stand there, look wherever you like, ten minutes, that's all." He drew a breath and nodded.
He stood beneath the pine as her quick sketch took shape. Without fuss, a few brisk lines captured his posture and quiet: the camera strap across his chest, a hand resting on the body, his mouth set in a pressed expression. Looking at the sketch, Yichen murmured, "It's good — it looks like me." His voice was a little dry but earnest. For a moment he felt something soft and small stir inside him.
The stream kept flowing; the pines murmured. The sun slid west; light patches drifted across the ground. From afar Yu Bo's calls faded in and out. In that pine grove, creation and life braided together into a gentle, silent moment.