Is that empty seat in the last row of the classroom really empty?
I didn't buy it and set a stack of confiscated homework on it. The next day, there was one more notebook on top of that stack.
I opened it—it was the handwriting of that boy who took a half-year leave from my class.
The date was yesterday.
Only one line on the last page:
"Teacher, I turned in my homework. When will you return it?"
Early September sun still carried summer heat, baking the plastic track until it smelled of melted rubber. I carried a stack of freshly collected summer homework, walking along the second-floor corridor of the teaching building, sweat trickling down my neck, shirt collar sticking uncomfortably to my skin.
The classroom door was open, ceiling fan creaking slowly, barely moving any air. Thirty-seven desks were arranged neatly. The last desk against the wall in the back row was empty, its surface clean, not even a book on it.
I'd just taken over Class 3, Grade 2, replacing Teacher Chen who was on maternity leave. Being a homeroom teacher was no small job—managing forty-odd teenagers, their studies, discipline, even their daily lives.
During morning reading, I stood at the podium calling roll. When I said "Zhou Yuan," no one answered. Liu Wei, the class monitor in the second row, raised her hand: "Teacher, Zhou Yuan took a leave of absence. He left last semester."
I nodded, circling the name with my pen. Leave of absence wasn't uncommon in a key high school—stress, depression, health issues. Go home, rest a semester, come back next term.
I flipped through the student roster, found Zhou Yuan's entry: "Leave due to illness," dated mid-March. I didn't ask more.
Third period was my math class. After explaining two example problems, I had students work on exercises. Pen scratches filled the room. I walked the aisles, hands behind my back. When I reached the last row, I noticed several workbooks stacked beside that empty desk.
I frowned. Kids had bad habits—using the back empty seat as a storage corner, dumping backpacks, jackets, snack bags there.
I picked up the workbooks, brushed off the dust, and set them on the podium. Before school ended, I told the class: "No more stuff on that empty seat in the back. Keep it clean—school inspects classroom hygiene." Students dragged out their response: "Yes, Teacher."
Next morning, I collected homework. The class representative brought stacks of notebooks to my office desk—two tall piles. I flipped through them—some blank, some scribbled, some neat and tidy.
Halfway through grading, I remembered the empty seat rule. I grabbed a stack of uncollected homework and walked to the classroom. Those unsubmitted notebooks needed to be named publicly, so students knew the teacher was watching.
Reaching the back door, I set the stack on that empty desk. It would be used for roll call anyway—podium was too messy. This spot was fine, empty anyway.
Second period afternoon, I carried graded notebooks back to distribute. As soon as I entered, I saw the stack still on the back desk—but there was one more notebook on top. Light blue plastic cover, different from the white-covered workbooks around it.
I walked over, picked it up, flipped it open. The name field said "Zhou Yuan." Neat handwriting, stroke by stroke—looked like a careful student.
I froze. Zhou Yuan was on leave, wasn't he? How did this notebook appear? Maybe left from last semester? I opened the inside—summer homework cover on the first page, a math exam paper tucked inside, dated September 3rd. Yesterday.
I pulled out the exam. All multiple-choice done, fill-in-the-blanks complete, every step of the calculations clear. The last challenging problem used a method I'd never seen—unconventional but clever.
Grading it: 75%. Same handwriting as the cover—smooth, clean, definitely the same person.
I brought the notebook to the podium, asking the class: "Who put Zhou Yuan's notebook here?"
Silence. Liu Wei looked up: "Teacher, Zhou Yuan's on leave. He hasn't come this semester." Other students agreed—hadn't seen him since last semester's end. I asked about the notebook—no one spoke.
Chen Hao, the chubby boy in the last row by the door, scratched his head: "Yesterday afternoon when I did cleaning duty, that desk was empty. This morning it had one more book."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, Teacher. I wiped that desk myself—spotless."
I felt uneasy, but still thought it was a prank. Kids these days would do anything, seen too many prank videos online. Probably slipped it in when no one was looking.
I put the notebook in the podium drawer, planning to check Zhou Yuan's academic file later, see if I could contact his parents.
Back home that night, I flipped through the notebook from cover to cover. Six assignments total, each dated, from August 25th to September 3rd.
Each assignment different—math papers, English reading, physics problems, even an 800-word essay titled "My Summer Vacation."
I read the essay. He wrote about staying at his grandma's in the countryside for half a month, helping peel corn, sitting in the yard every evening watching stars. Good writing, genuine emotion—didn't feel made up.
Last paragraph: "On September 1st, school started. I should have gone, but I couldn't. I finished all my homework at home, waiting to turn it in. Hope the new teacher sees it."
My unease turned to genuine discomfort. The words felt like Zhou Yuan himself wrote them—but something was off. Why would a student on leave do summer homework? He wasn't taking final exams.
Next day at school, first thing I went to the academic affairs office to check Zhou Yuan's file. Teacher Wang, the registrar, flipped through cabinets for a while, pulling out a brown envelope.
Inside were the enrollment form, transcripts, and a leave application. The parent's signature was messy, reason: "Poor health, needs long-term rest." Dated March 16th.
"Did he ever return?"
Teacher Wang pushed up his glasses: "Not that I know of—he's not on this semester's list. Why? Something happen?"
"Nothing. Just found his notebook in the classroom yesterday."
Teacher Wang's expression changed. He took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, looking at me: "You're new here, might not know—Zhou Yuan was... special."
"Special?"
"He barely came to class the second half of last semester, but still turned in every exam paper. Teacher Chen said the day before each exam, his paper would appear on her desk, completely filled out.
Teacher Chen called his parents three times—they said the child was at home, sick, couldn't come to school. But who wrote those papers? Teacher Chen said the handwriting was definitely Zhou Yuan's."
My palms started sweating. "Then his leave..."
"His parents came to process it. Teacher Chen originally refused—said you can't grant leave without seeing the student. But the parents were insistent, and the academic affairs office approved it."
Teacher Wang lowered his voice: "Before Teacher Chen left, she told me something. She said Zhou Yuan was still in the classroom. Just no one could see him."
The office AC hummed, blowing cold air. I stood in front of the file cabinet, staring at Teacher Wang's wrinkled face. Wanted to say it's impossible, but the words stuck in my throat.
That light blue notebook was sitting quietly in my bag on the desk.
I didn't sleep well that night. Tossed and turned in bed, mind full of that notebook and that unseen student.
Got up in the middle of the night for water. The living room TV was still on, showing static. I stood watching the screen for a long time, feeling something watching me from behind.
Next morning at school, I talked to Liu Wei. She seemed reliable, steady—the most dependable student in the class.
"Where did Zhou Yuan sit before?"
Liu Wei pointed to the last row, desk against the wall: "Right there. He came for a few days at the start of last semester, then disappeared. Teacher Chen said he was sick, resting at home."
"What was he like? Were you close to him?"
Liu Wei thought: "Not really. He was quiet, grades above average, didn't talk much. But he always turned in homework on time—Teacher Chen praised him for that."
"Did he have any... strange habits?"
Liu Wei's eyelid twitched. She bit her lower lip, like weighing her words. After a few seconds: "Once during PE free time, I went back to the classroom for my water bottle. I saw him sitting there writing alone.
I said hi, he didn't respond. I walked over and patted his shoulder. My hand went right through him."
"Went through?"
"It was like... my hand passed through air. I was so scared. Teacher Chen later said I was imagining things." Liu Wei's voice got smaller, "But I really saw him. He was sitting there, head down, pen moving."
Cold shivers down my spine. The sound of students playing basketball on the playground drifted in from outside, muffled like through water. I forced my voice steady: "Did you tell anyone else?"
"No. No one would believe me." Liu Wei looked up at me, "Do you believe me, Teacher?"
I couldn't answer.
After school that day, I stayed. The classroom emptied, leaving only that back desk and the chair flipped beside it.
Dusk flooded through the windows, stretching desk shadows long. I stood at the podium for a moment, then walked to that desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
The chair was cold. I took the light blue notebook from my bag, set it on the desk. Flipped to the last page—those words still there: "Teacher, I turned in my homework. When will you return it?"
I pulled a red pen from the pencil holder, wrote below: "Zhou Yuan, are you still in the classroom? The teacher wants to talk to you."
I closed the notebook, left it on the desk, stood and walked out. Glanced back at the door—last row empty, nothing there.
Next morning, I arrived half an hour early. When I pushed the door open, dawn was just breaking, sunlight slanting in, dust motes floating in the beam. I walked quickly to the back— the notebook was still on the desk, but open.
Below my note, a new line appeared. Same neat handwriting: "I'm here."
My heart squeezed. Fingers trembling, I flipped to earlier pages—all assignments still there, dates clear. Next to the September 3rd exam paper, a small line: "Teacher, I used Lagrange's method for this problem. Simpler than the textbook."
I froze for half a minute, then pulled out my phone and took a photo. The words were clearly visible.
First period, after finishing the lesson, I gave ten minutes for students to work independently.
I sat behind the podium staring at the last row, not blinking. Wind blew through the window— a ginkgo leaf landed on that desk, moved slightly, like someone had nudged it.
My mind raced, recalling Teacher Wang's words—"He's still in the classroom, just no one can see him."
At lunch, I sat across from Teacher Zhang, who taught physics and had been at the school for over a decade, seen it all. I casually brought up Zhou Yuan from Class 3 last semester.
Teacher Zhang's chopsticks paused. He took a bite of rice, chewed slowly before speaking: "You encountered it too?"
"Encountered what?"
"That notebook." Teacher Zhang lowered his voice, "Teacher Chen got one last semester too. Same light blue notebook, suddenly appeared on that desk, filled with assignments.
Teacher Chen was terrified. She went to the academic affairs office to get to the bottom of it, but the more she investigated, the more confused things got."
"How confused?"
"Zhou Yuan's parents' phone works, but they always sound evasive. Teacher Chen asked what exactly was wrong with Zhou Yuan—his mom just said poor health, regular hospital visits.
Teacher Chen said she wanted to visit their home—they said no, inconvenient. Later, Teacher Chen had someone check their address—no one lives there."
I forgot to eat. "No one lives there?"
"Empty house. Mailbox stuffed with flyers—clearly unoccupied for months." Teacher Zhang put down his chopsticks, looked me in the eye,
"Teacher Chen was practically nervous breakdown. She ran home right after school every day, said she couldn't stay in the classroom. Then she got pregnant, took maternity leave right away."
"So Zhou Yuan... what exactly is he?"
Teacher Zhang shook his head, picked up his tray and left. Two steps away, he turned back, voice almost inaudible: "Ask him—after you return his homework, what else does he want?"
That afternoon I had no classes. I sat alone in the office flipping through Zhou Yuan's file. Transcripts showed grades solidly above average from Grade 1 to first half of Grade 2. Homeroom teacher's comment: "This student studies diligently, follows rules, but is introverted and struggles with peer interaction."
Attached was a one-inch photo—glasses, short hair, ordinary thin boy.
I flipped the photo over—small pencil writing: "Enrollment photo, September 2016." Below that, different handwriting, added later: "Last school photo, March 2017."
March. The same month he took leave.
That night, I went back to the classroom again. This time I didn't turn on the lights, just stood at the door looking in by the corridor's emergency light. That back desk was in shadow, the light blue notebook reflecting a faint glow. I took a deep breath and walked in, standing before the desk.
"Zhou Yuan," I spoke, voice tight, "Can you hear me?"
No response. But I felt the air temperature drop slightly, like someone had approached.
"I read your homework. You did very well, especially that last problem—clever approach." I picked up the notebook, flipped to a blank page, "But you need to tell me—why do you stay in the classroom? You're on leave, aren't you?"
Handwriting slowly appeared on the blank page—stroke by stroke, like an invisible hand holding a pen. Speed steady, just like normal writing.
The words: "I got in a car accident the day I took leave. I was going to school to handle the paperwork, riding my bike through the intersection when a truck hit me. After that, I couldn't go anywhere—only back to the classroom."
My scalp tingled, knuckles white on the notebook. "Are you saying... you've already..."
"I'm dead. But I don't know how to leave. Homework was the only thing I could do—used to do it every day, turn it in, get it back corrected. I've been waiting for new homework, waiting for the teacher to grade my notebook, waiting for everything to be like before."
After that line paused, another appeared: "Teacher, I'm happy you returned my homework. But can I ask—what's tomorrow's homework?"
The emergency light flickered twice. I stood in darkness, clutching the light blue notebook, watching those silent words emerge on the page. Wanted to speak, but my throat felt blocked.
"You want to stay and keep doing homework?" I heard my voice trembling.
Slowly, one word appeared: "Yes."
"But you're no longer in this class. The students... they can't see you."
"I know. It's just... I don't know what else to do."
I sat down on the chair—it was cold. In darkness, I stared at the words for a long time, then wrote: "What did you used to like? Besides homework."
Silence for a while. Then the handwriting reappeared: "I liked watching stars. That essay in summer homework was real—I watched stars many times at my grandma's."
"Do you want to go see the stars? Outside?"
The notebook stayed blank for a long time. So long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then slowly, two characters appeared—crooked, different from his neat handwriting: "Yes."
I closed the notebook and stood. As I walked out, I glanced back—by that desk in the last row, the air seemed to twist slightly, like heat shimmer. Another ginkgo leaf floated in from the window, landing on that empty chair, spinning once, stopping.
Next day I didn't go to class. I took a day off from the grade director, and in the afternoon took a bus to Zhou Yuan's address. Just as Teacher Zhang said—empty house, rusted iron gate, mailbox stuffed with colorful flyers.
I stood at the door and called Zhou Yuan's parents' number. Rang for a long time before someone picked up—a woman's voice, hoarse.
"Hello, I'm Teacher Li, the new homeroom teacher for Class 3. I'd like to ask about Zhou Yuan."
Silence on the line. Then the woman said: "You're the third teacher who's called. My son is gone. March 16th last year—he rode his bike to school to handle leave paperwork, got into an accident.
His father and I couldn't accept it. We didn't tell the school the truth—just processed the leave. We lied to ourselves that he was still in school, still doing homework, still..."
She couldn't continue. Suppressed sobs came through the phone.
I stood in front of that empty house, listening to the cries, heart aching. After hanging up, I walked back to school, straight to the classroom.
Last period had just ended, students packing up and leaving. I stood before that desk in the back row, opened the light blue notebook.
On the final blank page, I wrote: "Today's homework—look up at the stars outside. Tell me what you see tomorrow."
The notebook lay on the desk, wind blowing cool air through the room, carrying the last scent of summer. The door at the end of the corridor moved silently, as if pushed open a crack, then gently closed.
I held the blank notebook. Below my words on the last page, small crooked characters had appeared at some point—like drawn, or seeping through from the back of the paper.
"Thank you, Teacher. I saw them."