From a county-level lecture hall to a nationally renowned teacher

On the first day of September 2008, Lin Zhiyuan stood on the podium of Class 7, Grade 1. The classroom was on the third floor of the Yucai Middle School teaching building, with windows facing south, offering views of the playground and distant mountains. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the entire classroom, and chalk dust danced in the beams of light like tiny snowflakes.

The students below were quieter than he had expected. Sixty people, sixty pairs of eyes, all staring at him. No whispering, no looking in the mirror, no sleeping on their desks. They had just come up from junior high, still carrying the naiveté of junior high students and awe of high school. This state usually only lasted two weeks, after which their true colors would be revealed.

"Hello students, my surname is Lin, I am your Chinese teacher and also your homeroom teacher." He wrote his name and mobile phone number on the blackboard. "From today onwards, we are all one family."

He walked around the classroom, memorizing every face. When he reached the third row, he stopped and looked at a girl. She had a ponytail, slightly dark skin, and large eyes. She was wearing a faded school uniform—not the Yucai school uniform, but her junior high school uniform. The uniform was a little small; the sleeves were too short, revealing a section of her slender wrist.

"What's your name?"

"Teacher Lin, my name is He Xiaohe."

"Which '禾'?"

"The 'He' in 'He Miao' (禾苗)."

Lin Zhiyuan nodded and memorized the name. He Xiaohe, the "He" in "seedling." She was ranked very low on the roster, barely making it in. But in her eyes, Lin Zhiyuan saw something very familiar—the indomitable light unique to those who have struggled their way up from the bottom.

He had seen too many such looks during his five years at the county's No. 1 High School. Zhou Haitao had them, Liu Qiang had them, and Chen Yutong had them too. Now, in the city, at Yucai Middle School, he saw them again.

He walked back to the podium, picked up the chalk, and wrote four words on the blackboard: Start from scratch.

"No matter how many points you scored on the high school entrance exam, no matter which school you came from, from today onwards, everything starts from scratch. The three years of high school are a blank sheet of paper. What you draw on it will become what it is."

He paused, looking at the sixty faces below.

"Alright, that's all I have to say. Now, let's begin the lesson."

During the first week of school, Lin Zhiyuan made twenty home visits. He didn't visit every single household; he was selective. He visited the top-performing students, the struggling students, those with potential, and those with problems. He Xiaohe was the first.

He Xiaohe lived in a shantytown in the east of the city, in a small, single-story house of less than forty square meters at the end of a narrow alley. When Lin Zhiyuan arrived, she was washing clothes by the sink in front of her door. Seeing her squatting on the ground scrubbing clothes, he thought of Zhou Haitao's mother and Liu Qiang's mother. Twenty years had passed, from the county town to the city, but some things had never changed.

He Xiaohe.

She turned her head, saw him, paused for a moment, then quickly stood up and wiped her hands on her clothes: "Teacher Lin? What brings you here?"

"Home visit. Are your parents home?"

"My mom is here. My dad... is working away from home."

He Xiaohe's mother came out of the house. She was a woman in her early forties with deep wrinkles on her face and calluses on her hands. When she saw Lin Zhiyuan, she seemed a little nervous and repeatedly wiped her hands on her apron.

"Teacher Lin, please come in and sit down. The room is small, please don't mind."

Lin Zhiyuan went inside. The room was dimly lit, with only one energy-saving light bulb. The furniture was simple: a bed, a table, a few chairs, and an old-fashioned wardrobe. The walls were covered with He Xiaohe's certificates of merit, from elementary school to junior high school, more than a dozen in total.

"He Xiaohe's grades are very good," Lin Zhiyuan said. "If she keeps it up, she'll have no problem getting into a top university."

He Xiaohe's mother's eyes reddened: "Teacher Lin, Xiaohe is such a sensible child. Every day after school, she does housework first, then does her homework. She works until very late, and when I tell her to go to bed early, she says no, she hasn't finished her homework."

Lin Zhiyuan turned to look at He Xiaohe. She stood at the door, head down, saying nothing.

"He Xiaohe, which university do you want to attend in the future?"

"Peking University." Her voice was soft, but firm.

Lin Zhiyuan was stunned for a moment. Peking University. This was the first time he had heard a student utter those two words at Yucai Middle School. In the county's No. 1 Middle School, only Zhou Haitao dared to dream of Peking University. In the city, and at Yucai, many students dared to dream of Peking University, but when He Xiaohe uttered those two words, he didn't think she was exaggerating. Because her eyes were the same as Zhou Haitao's—the kind of eyes that only someone with no way out would have.

"Okay. Then you should apply to Peking University," Lin Zhiyuan said. "I'll help you."

In mid-September, Lin Zhiyuan received a call from Chen Yutong.

"Teacher Lin, I'm graduating."

Time flies. You're about to graduate.

"Yes. I signed with a publishing house in the provincial capital to work as a literary editor."

"Congratulations. You'll be able to help even more people publish their books in the future."

"Teacher Lin, do you remember that novel I wrote?"

"I remember. 'The Rainy Season Will Never Come Again'."

"I revised it to 200,000 words. The publisher said they were willing to publish it."

Lin Zhiyuan held his phone, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him. Six years ago, Chen Yutong sat in the small garden of the county's No. 1 High School and said, "Life is tiring." Six years later, she was about to publish a book. A 200,000-word novel, flowing from the pen of a high school girl, had become printed words and would be read by more people.

"Chen Yutong, congratulations."

"Teacher Lin, I'll send you a copy after the book is published."

"Okay. I will study hard."

After hanging up the phone, Lin Zhiyuan sat in a chair, looking out the window. The leaves of the sycamore trees were beginning to turn yellow, fluttering down one by one like golden butterflies. He remembered Chen Yutong talking about Sanmao in the literary society, remembered her sitting alone in the garden watching the stars, remembered her hunched over her desk writing her novel. That girl who once felt life was exhausting was now publishing a book.

He opened the drawer, found the essays Chen Yutong had written before, and read them one by one. Those immature words and those naive expressions now seemed very rough. But there was something in those words that the current Chen Yutong might have lost—a primitive, rough, and reckless vitality.

He carefully put the essays away and returned them to the drawer.

In October, on National Day, Lin Zhiyuan took Su Wanqing and Xiao Siqi back to the county town.

Su Wanqing's mother was recovering well; some of her hair had grown back, gray and white like winter frost. When Xiao Siqi saw her grandmother, she rushed over and called out, "Grandma, Grandma!" Su Wanqing's mother beamed, hugging and kissing her repeatedly.

"Siqi has grown up and looks more and more like Wanqing when she was little," said Su Wanqing's mother.

"How is that similar? I wasn't this naughty when I was a child," Su Wanqing said.

"You were much more mischievous than her when you were little. When you were three, you climbed up a tree and couldn't get down, so you cried for an hour."

Su Wanqing blushed. Little Siqi clapped her hands beside her, chanting, "Mommy, climb a tree! Mommy, climb a tree!"

Lin Zhiyuan smiled. He sat on the sofa, watching the family's lively antics, and felt a warmth in his heart.

In the afternoon, he went to the county's No. 1 Middle School.

The school was still the same. The sign at the school gate had been repainted, and the words "Anyuan County No. 1 Middle School" gleamed golden in the sunlight. The sycamore trees were taller than a few years ago, their leaves dense and rustling in the wind. People were running on the playground, lap after lap, chasing something, I wondered.

He went up to the teaching building and went to the Chinese language group office. Shen Ruohan wasn't there; her desk was empty, covered with a thin layer of dust. Wang Jianguo said that Shen Ruohan had been transferred to the provincial capital and had just left last month.

"She's finally gone," Wang Jianguo sighed. "She stayed here for three years, always wanting to leave. Now it's all good; she's gone to the provincial capital, closer to her family."

"Is she alone?"

"Alone. Alone ever since the divorce."

Lin Zhiyuan remained silent. He stared at Shen Ruohan's empty desk, recalling how she had looked when she first arrived—short hair, black-rimmed glasses, a capable demeanor, and a meticulous work ethic. She had stayed here for three years, teaching two graduating classes of senior high school students and seeing hundreds of students graduate. Now she was gone, gone to the provincial capital, to start a new life.

"Old Wang, where is Teacher Chen's grave?"

"The North City Cemetery. Are you going to visit him?"

"Um."

The Chengbei Cemetery is located on a small hill north of the county town. Lin Zhiyuan went alone, bought a bouquet of chrysanthemums, and placed it in front of Chen Mingyuan's grave. The tombstone is inscribed with "Tomb of Teacher Chen Mingyuan," and below it is a line of smaller characters: "Thirty-one years of teaching, students all over the world."

Lin Zhiyuan stood in front of the tomb and bowed three times.

"Teacher Chen, I've come to see you."

A gust of wind blew, causing a few chrysanthemum petals to fall. Those white petals landed on the tombstone, on the base of the monument, and in the soil.

"Teacher Chen, I'm teaching in the city now. The students are harder to manage than those in the county, but it's very interesting. I have a daughter named Siqi, who is almost three years old. She's very naughty, but very smart."

He crouched down, picked up the fallen petals, and placed them on the tombstone.

"Teacher Chen, I've always remembered what you taught me. I will teach well. Don't worry."

He bowed again, turned and left. As he descended the mountain, he glanced back. The setting sun shone on the tombstone, making the words gleam.

In November, Lin Zhiyuan organized an activity for the class.

He asked each student to write a letter to themselves ten years from now. They could write anything they wanted in the letter—expectations for the future, promises to themselves, or things they wanted to say to their future selves. After they finished writing, he collected all the letters and locked them in an iron box.

"I will keep these letters for you. Come back to me in ten years, and I will return them to you."

"Teacher Lin, can you keep it for ten years?" a student asked.

"Yes. As long as I'm alive."

The students laughed. They didn't know Lin Zhiyuan was serious. He genuinely intended to keep them for ten, twenty, thirty years. As long as he was alive, these letters would remain. They were a testament to these children's youth, a mark of his teaching career.

He Xiaohe's letter was very long. She was the last to hand it in; the envelope was bulging, as if it contained a lot of things. When Lin Zhiyuan took the envelope, he glanced at her. She had her head down, her face flushed.

"What did you write?" he asked in a low voice.

I won't tell you.

Lin Zhiyuan smiled. He put the envelope into the tin box and locked it. This tin box would become fuller and fuller in the future, just like his drawer.

December, the first snow.

Lin Zhiyuan stood by the classroom window, watching snowflakes drift down from the gray sky. The snow in the city was still so light, melting as soon as it hit the ground, leaving the roads wet and reflecting the dim yellow light of the streetlights.

"Teacher Lin, it's snowing!" He Xiaohe called out.

"I saw it."

"Can we go out and play?"

Lin Zhiyuan glanced at his watch; there were still five minutes left before get out of class ended.

"Wait until get out of class is over."

"Just five minutes!"

"Not even five minutes."

He Xiaohe pouted and returned to her seat. But her eyes kept glancing out the window; she wasn't paying attention at all.

Lin Zhiyuan sighed and put down the chalk: "Alright, get out of class dismissed early. Go out and play for ten minutes, come back in ten minutes."

A deafening cheer erupted from the classroom, and sixty students surged out like a tidal wave. Lin Zhiyuan stood in the corridor, watching them run, chase, and have a snowball fight on the playground. He Xiaohe squatted down, scooped up a handful of snow, made a snowball, and threw it at a boy, hitting him squarely on the back of the head.

"He Xiaohe! You wait!" The boy chased after her, but He Xiaohe ran away laughing, her ponytail swinging in the wind.

Lin Zhiyuan watched her retreating figure, thinking of Zhou Haitao, Chen Yutong, Su Hang, and all the students he had once taught. Where were they now? What were they doing? Were they doing well?

He didn't know. But he knew they would be alright. Because they were all his students.

December 31st, the last day of 2008.

Lin Zhiyuan sat in his study, flipping through his diary from the past year. January: Su Hang said he wanted to drop out of school. February: Su Hang sat on the riverbank. March: The Wenchuan earthquake. April: Su Hang said he wanted to study architecture. May: The college entrance exam. June: Su Hang was admitted to Tsinghua University. July: Chen Hao was admitted to a sports academy. August: The Olympics. September: He Xiaohe said she wanted to apply to Peking University. October: Chen Yutong was about to publish a book. November: A student wrote a letter to his future self ten years later. December: It snowed.

This year has been filled with pain, hope, loss, and gain. He closed his diary, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

Little Siqi ran in and climbed onto his lap: "Daddy, tell me a story."

"What story should I tell?"

"Tell me about Snow White."

Lin Zhiyuan held his daughter in his arms, opened the fairy tale book, and began to read. He read slowly, word by word. Little Siqi listened attentively, her eyes shining like two stars.

Su Wanqing walked in, sat down on the chair next to him, and listened to him read. Outside the window, someone was setting off fireworks; with a bang, a golden flower exploded in the air.

"Dad, is the New Year coming soon?" Xiao Siqi asked.

"We're almost there."

What's for the New Year?

"There is hope for the New Year."

"What is hope?"

Lin Zhiyuan thought for a moment and said, "My hope is that tomorrow will be better."

Xiao Siqi didn't understand, but she smiled. When she smiled, she revealed a few tiny teeth, so cute that you wanted to take a bite.

Lin Zhiyuan held his daughter and looked at his wife. Fireworks outside the window bloomed one by one, illuminating the night sky.

2009 has arrived.