Notes of Youth

The snow had melted into slush along the streets of the city. Winter break was drawing to a close, and the quiet countryside had given way to the familiar gray of urban mornings. Lin Keqing stepped off the train with a bag in hand and sleep still clinging to her eyes. She hadn't wanted to leave her grandmother's home so soon—but school was starting again, and so was reality.

She expected to catch a bus, drag her luggage down the block, and return to the small apartment she shared with her grandmother during the school year.

Instead, she found her father waiting at the station.

He stood by the vending machine, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, glancing at his phone as if unsure how to act when she arrived.

"Dad?" she called, stopping in place.

He turned quickly, pocketed his phone, and smiled. It was that small, tentative smile she hadn't seen since the last time he picked her up from school two years ago.

"You came alone?" she asked.

He nodded. "Your grandmother asked me to bring you home today."

"Her place?"

He hesitated, then said, "No. Ours. Just for tonight."

Keqing blinked. "Ours?"

He reached for her bag. "Come on. Let's talk on the way."

The car ride was quiet. He drove carefully, hands steady on the wheel. Keqing watched the city pass by—traffic lights, early shoppers, steam rising from street food stalls.

"I made congee," he said eventually. "And your favorite—lotus root soup."

She didn't answer. Not because she didn't want to. Just… because she didn't know what to say.

When they pulled up to the old apartment, it was the same beige building with the creaky elevator and potted plants on every balcony. But the lights inside were different—softer, warmer. And something else.

Shoes by the door. A scarf she didn't recognize. A woman's coat hung neatly on the rack.

Keqing's heart skipped.

"She's here?" she asked.

Her father looked at her gently. "She wanted to see you."

Before she could speak, the door opened.

And there she was.

Lin Keqing's mother.

Standing just as she remembered—tall, elegant, with the same clear eyes and pale hands. But older now. More tired. More fragile around the edges.

"Keqing," her mother said softly.

Keqing froze.

It was like someone had opened a drawer in her chest she had sealed years ago. One that still held postcards, broken hair ties, a forgotten lullaby.

"Mom…" she breathed.

Her mother stepped closer, unsure. "Can I… can I hug you?"

Keqing didn't move at first.

Then she nodded—once, slowly.

And her mother pulled her into a gentle, trembling embrace.

They ate in the quiet of late morning. The soup was hot, the rice soft. Her father served her carefully, watching her as if checking whether she was really there.

Her mother sipped tea. Occasionally, her fingers trembled when she reached for her bowl.

No one said much at first.

Then: "I came back three weeks ago," her mother said.

Keqing looked up.

"I've been living in Chengdu for the past few years," she continued. "Teaching. Translating books. I thought… maybe if I stayed away, I'd do less harm."

Her voice was low. Careful.

"I wasn't ready to be someone's mother when I left," she admitted. "And I don't expect you to forgive that. But I've wanted to see you—every day."

Keqing stirred her spoon slowly.

"I used to wait for your letters," she said. "When I was eight."

Her mother flinched.

"They stopped coming."

"I didn't think I deserved to write anymore."

Keqing looked down. The bowl in front of her blurred slightly. Steam rising like breath.

"It hurt," she whispered.

"I know," her mother said. "I know it did. And I would take it back if I could. But I can't. So I'm here now. If you want me to be."

Keqing said nothing.

After the meal, her father washed dishes while Keqing and her mother sat on the small balcony, watching pigeons gather on the rooftop opposite.

"You're taller than me now," her mother said with a soft smile.

Keqing gave a tiny nod.

"You always loved watching the sky," her mother added.

Keqing folded her arms.

"I still do," she said. "When I can't sleep. When I'm scared."

Her mother looked at her. "Are you scared now?"

Keqing didn't answer.

She didn't know how to say: I'm scared of forgetting what it feels like to be a family. I'm scared of being angry. Of forgiving. Of hoping too much, too soon.

Instead, she asked, "Why now?"

Her mother took a deep breath.

"Because I kept waiting for the perfect moment. And I realized… it doesn't exist. So I asked your father if I could come. Just once. To see who you've become."

Keqing looked up. Her voice was quieter than the wind.

"I don't know who I've become yet."

"That's okay," her mother replied. "You don't have to."

The rest of the day passed slowly. Her mother showed her pictures of where she'd been—students in language labs, translations of old novels, plum blossoms blooming near a dusty bookstore.

Keqing listened in silence. Not with forgiveness. Not with anger. Just… attention.

It was more than she'd thought she could offer.

As evening fell, the three of them sat at the dinner table again. The conversation was lighter now—about school, upcoming projects, silly teachers, Yahan's impulsiveness, Zichen's drawings, even Gu Yuyan's quiet ways.

"You seem happy," her mother said at one point.

"I'm trying," Keqing replied.

Her father chuckled softly. "She's stubborn. Just like her mother."

The air softened.

For a brief moment, the years between them felt like thin ice—not gone, but not unbridgeable either.

Before bed, Keqing stepped out onto the balcony again. The sky above the apartment was clouded but peaceful. She remembered the stars from the countryside, the firelight, the telescope.

Her mother joined her, wrapping a scarf around her neck.

"You don't have to decide anything tonight," she said. "I just wanted you to see I'm real. Still here."

Keqing nodded.

She didn't say she had cried. She didn't say she had kept a letter from five years ago, hidden in her drawer. She didn't say she had imagined this moment more times than she could count.

Instead, she reached out.

And gently, she took her mother's hand.

They stood in silence, mother and daughter, under a city sky that held no stars.

But even without light, they found warmth.

A beginning.