The pencil rustled across the blank space of the textbook. I held my heavy head in one hand and used the pencil in the other hand to scribble out a delicate face, a face that could be clearly seen even in dreams. The slightly raised corners of his mouth warmed all the glaciers in winter. He stopped writing, raised his head, and watched the old man standing on the podium rolling up a textbook. The chalk in his hand rustled on the blackboard, but the sharp knocking sound seemed to be regarded by the students as the last straw to get more points.
Works by He and Xia, members of Ruoming Literary Society.
Wu Shixun and Lu Han fan