CTJM - 11

Chapter 11: The Report

After that, they frequently encountered each other in the library.

Very frequently—about four or five times a week. Though their arrival times didn’t align, they both invariably stayed until the library closed at 10 PM. When the music of “Going Home” played, signaling closing time, they would simultaneously begin packing up their things at separate tables.

—He was a man of simple habits, truly devoted to his academic pursuits.

He could read for an entire afternoon, and when writing papers, he was even more focused. His phone always lay face down beside him, untouched unless he briefly checked it during water breaks to reply to messages. Once done, he would flip it back over and continue working.

Sometimes friends accompanied him, all male. Some appeared to be from the School of Liberal Arts, while others seemed to be from other departments. Regardless, they would sit for a while before leaving, usually no more than two hours. Only he remained, steadfastly seated from morning until night, day after day, week after week.

...Like a stable pendulum, his consistency inspired trust.

By November, the weather grew colder, and the pressure of midterms intensified. The library became crowded, especially on weekends, making it difficult to find seats without reserving them in advance.

Min Rui, the dazzling beauty who usually flitted between social engagements, rarely started assignments until two days before the deadline. Lately, however, she had been cramming, temporarily bidding farewell to her boyfriend and admirers to join Yin Mengxi in the library. But Min Rui couldn’t wake up early, so the task of reserving seats fell to Yin Mengxi. That morning, she arrived at the library at eight o’clock, placing a pencil case on the seat next to hers to reserve it. Out of habit, she glanced toward the window-side seat.

...But the person sitting there wasn’t him.

She quietly scanned the reference room again, but still couldn’t find his figure.

...Where was he?

Was he not coming today?

A faint sense of loss washed over her, as though a clock had suddenly stopped ticking, blurring her sense of time. The thought felt strange, so she shook her head to dispel it. She plugged in her laptop, opened her document, and continued working on her Su Shi report.

Her topic had been finalized: a textual analysis of Su Shi’s confession in the “Wutai Poetry Case.” Her presentation draft was already 7,000 words long—more than sufficient to submit as a paper—but she still wasn’t satisfied, feeling it needed further revisions.

Logging into CNKI to search for relevant papers, she spent half a day finding one worth referencing. Midway through reading, she sensed someone passing behind her. A moment later, she felt a light tap on the back of her chair.

She turned around... and saw him.

“Sorry...”

His voice was still soft, and he gestured toward the empty seat next to her.

“...Is this seat taken?”

Ah.

This...

The clock had started ticking again, but her mind froze. Though the seat was reserved for Min Rui, she inexplicably replied, “...No.”

He nodded, glancing at the pencil case on the chair. Realizing her mistake, she quickly grabbed it as if burned and stuffed it back into her bag. At that moment, he seemed to smile at her—a gentle breeze rustling through a valley, causing the treetops to sway slightly.

“Thank you.”

He sat down beside her.

This...

...This was too close.

Their shoulders were only thirty or forty centimeters apart, and the slightest movement might brush against each other’s arms. She couldn’t adjust to such proximity. Her habit was to observe him from the back of the classroom to the front, or from one end of the reference room to the other.

Her senses were heightened. His presence not only filled her peripheral vision but also invaded her consciousness. She could feel him nearby, and if she listened carefully, she could even hear his breathing. Her limbs stiffened, and every movement felt unnatural. Though she knew he wasn’t paying attention to her, she was so tense she dared not move an inch.

For a full half-hour... not a single word was added to her report, nor a single line of the paper read.

—I should leave.

This... this was unbearable...

She mentally raised the white flag, planning to pack up her laptop and leave. Just as she turned to grab her bag hanging on the back of her chair, her gaze collided with his once more.

Both of them froze momentarily—she because she hadn’t expected him to be looking at her, and he likely because he hadn’t anticipated her sudden movement.

Their eyes darted away like a dragonfly skimming the surface of water. He had already averted his gaze, but her heart raced faster. As she gathered her bag into her arms, he had already scribbled a note, which he gently pushed toward her with his long, elegant fingers. She glanced down—it read:

“Very well written.”

“The issue of rhetorical strategies in the confession can be expanded further.”

This...

...Was he offering suggestions for her report?

Had he been reading it just now...?

Because she had sat motionless for half an hour, did he think she needed help?

“Very well written”...

...He had praised her.

Blood rushed furiously to her face. She was certain she was blushing, though she didn’t know how noticeable it was. Embarrassment, nervousness, joy, and excitement—all jumbled together like a chaotic swirl of colors, impossible to untangle.

“...Thank you.”

She hastily muttered, keeping her head bowed, too afraid to meet his eyes. While packing up, she suddenly mustered the courage to casually slip the note into her book, pretending it was accidental. Fearing discovery, her movements were swift. Once packed, she stood up and walked toward the exit of the reference room. If not for worrying that running would look too conspicuous, she would have bolted straight out of the library by now.

When she returned to the dormitory, her face was still warm. Meanwhile, Min Rui, who had claimed she would study to meet deadlines, was still asleep in bed. Yin Mengxi quietly placed her bag down and carefully retrieved the hastily rolled-up note from her books. Gazing at the four neatly handwritten characters—”very well written”—her ears heated up again.

She wanted to store it away but couldn’t bear to fold it. After some deliberation, she carefully tucked it into her diary.

And nestled there... was a commemorative bookmark from the School of Liberal Arts’ orientation.

November 6th was the day of the official presentation.

Yin Mengxi was extremely nervous. Whether it was fear of the presentation itself or dread of embarrassing herself in front of him, she sat at her seat before class, repeatedly reviewing her notes. Though she had prepared meticulously, the more she read, the more uneasy she felt.

Finally, the bell rang to signal the start of class. Professor Jia wasn’t there—only he was. Perhaps because he was responsible for providing feedback that day, he didn’t sit on the left side of the classroom as usual but instead took a seat in the center of the front row.

“Shall we proceed in student ID order?” he asked gently, consulting with the undergraduates. “Let’s start with the class of ‘08.”

He was an excellent listener.

Throughout the session, over a dozen students presented their reports, and he listened attentively from beginning to end for each one. Even when some presentations were clearly lackluster—so much so that even Yin Mengxi, an outsider to the department, could tell they were poorly done—he never grew impatient or interrupted. It was only during the Q&A segment that he pointed out the presenter’s shortcomings.

Words like “terrible” or “awful” never crossed his lips. Instead, he offered specific, constructive feedback, not to judge but to suggest how things could be improved.

His gentleness was reassuring.

Her nervousness eased slightly, though her heart still clenched. As the class neared its end, it was finally her turn. He called her name from the front of the classroom—

“Is Yin Mengxi here?”

Of course she was.

She took a deep breath and walked to the podium. As she passed the first row, he didn’t look up, calmly jotting something down on paper—perhaps recording the grade for the previous presenter. She pursed her lips, stepped onto the stage, opened her pre-prepared PowerPoint, and began her presentation.

“Hello everyone, I’m Yin Mengxi from the Journalism Department, class of ‘11. The topic of my report is ‘A Study on the Hierarchical Structure of the Confession Text in Su Shi’s Wutai Poetry Case’...”

At this point, he raised his head, having finished writing and now fully focused on her presentation. His handsome features looked at her intently, with a subtle hint of encouragement—as if an adult were cheering on a child solving arithmetic problems, always making her feel at ease.

Her heart rose and fell, and she smoothly delivered the content she had painstakingly prepared. Occasionally glancing at him, she noticed he continued taking notes intermittently, though his brow remained unwrinkled, and he nodded twice.

“The above concludes my presentation...” she nervously wrapped up, “...I welcome any criticism or suggestions from the teacher and my classmates.”

Sparse applause broke out below. Most of it came from students who had been distracted during the lecture, but he had listened attentively, clearly understanding all the carefully arranged transitions and recognizing both her efforts and her regrets.

“Professor Jia isn’t here today, and there aren’t many teachers present,” he said with a polite smile, forever gentle. “There’s no need for criticism or correction—just a few suggestions to discuss together.”

“The overall structure is good. You’ve reorganized the confession texts chronologically and compared Su Shi’s explanations to the Imperial Censorate with the original meanings of the poems. Your data compilation is clear, and it’s evident you’ve put in a lot of effort.”

“However, the hierarchical division could perhaps be refined further. On September 3rd, Su Shi discussed several poems related to Sun Jue, as well as the articles The Record of the Great Compassion Pavilion and In Praise of Wang Yuan’s Portrait. For the Imperial Censorate, this was a fruitful day. The phrase ‘re-examination leading to confession’ should be considered a high point in this series of interrogations, with a more intense atmosphere than when discussing works like The Sun Analogy and Eulogy for Wen Yuke...”

...He spoke in great detail.

It seemed he knew everything: the Wutai Poetry Case involving Su Shi that she had discussed, as well as the topics presented by the seniors earlier—on the soundscape of Dongjing in the Song Dynasty, the customs of Tang and Song dancing songs, and critiques of Song Dynasty notebooks. No matter how obscure or complex the field, he understood it thoroughly and could keenly identify gaps in everyone’s research.

No wonder he had published in top-tier journals as a first-year graduate student... he seemed to know the Song Dynasty better than the people who lived in it.

She listened carefully as he pointed out issues in her report and offered suggestions. At that moment, she realized he was a true scholar. A vast expanse of knowledge surrounded him like a starry sky, making him appear profound yet serene.

“Overall, it was very good...”

He was also generous, knowing to sincerely commend others for their hard work.

“...You deserve the highest score today.”

She wasn’t sure if he smiled at her then, but the breeze through the valley once again stirred her heart, causing her to fall quietly, like late spring blossoms drifting from a branch.

All the way into... the serene ripples of his eyes.