An Answer Sheet Without a Question Setter

Sixteen-year-old Lin Yue tore poems out of his textbook, folded them into paper airplanes, and threw them out the window. The words seemed as hollow as a list of punishments, and his parents only ever said, "You're too young to understand." He skipped class and went to the riverbank, watching the water wash over the pebbles again and again. The stones didn't fight back; they were simply worn smooth. That evening, when he got home, his father handed him an old diary. On its yellowed pages, in crooked handwriting, were the words: "1983. I tore up my Chinese textbook too. The homeroom teacher said I'd understand when I grew up. I didn't believe him then." Looking at those words, Lin Yue realized for the first time that his father's generation hadn't always been so sensible. They had simply been worn smooth by time, like pebbles. The old fountain pen in his hand, which belonged to his father, felt so heavy he could hardly lift his head.