At 11:30 p.m., the snow in Jiangcheng stopped.
In the teachers' apartment, Shen Qingqiu had just finished revising the last lesson plan and rubbed her sore temples.
The jujube tea on the table had gone cold.
She was about to get up to throw it away when the screen of her phone, which was next to her, suddenly lit up.
[Mu Que] (Lin Que): Teacher Shen, I have finished writing the first draft for the competition. Could you please take a look?
Shen Qingqiu was slightly taken aback and glanced at the wall clock.
This point?
She picked up her phone, her fingertip hovering over the screen for a moment.
This kid just got the question during the day and he's already written it?
[Shen Qingqiu]: Why aren't you asleep yet?
The message was sent back, and the other party replied almost instantly.
【木欮】(林阙): Just as inspiration struck, I was afraid it would dissipate after a nap.
I feel more energetic after finishing writing, so I'm going to sleep now. Goodnight, teacher!
Shen Qingqiu looked at the reply and tapped the screen lightly with her fingertip.
I opened the document titled "Listening to Snow".
Originally, she only intended to glance at it briefly and look at it more carefully tomorrow.
The main thing to check is whether the theme has gone astray.
After all, the topic "Silent Thunder" has many pitfalls and is very easy to write into pretentious and affected writing.
However, when her gaze fell upon the first line of text,
The body, which had been leaning back in the chair, involuntarily straightened up.
"The snow in Jiangnan is like dead rain..."
Shen Qingqiu's pupils contracted slightly.
There are no fancy parallel structures, and no elaborate quotations.
The words were as cold and sharp as a knife, cutting directly through the gentle surface of Jiangnan.
It revealed the bone beneath, frozen solid by history and time.
She saw the snow described in the boy's drawing.
It's not about romance and beauty, but about oppression, silence, and the silent gasps under the wheels of history.
The room was eerily quiet, with only the faint sound of Shen Qingqiu's fingertips swiping across the screen.
When Shen Qingqiu read the sentence, "The real thunder is often silent," he felt a chill run down his spine.
Is this really something a high school student could write?
This is something that even an ordinary writer could not have written.
This is not only due to extremely high experience and profound compassion,
It also takes a pair of eyes that have seen through the coldness and warmth of human relationships to see beyond the ordinary snowfall.
Such a deafening silence could be heard.
Shen Qingqiu put down her phone, walked to the window, and opened it.
A cold wind blew in, ruffling her hair.
She stared out the window at the snow that gleamed palely under the streetlights, lost in thought for a long time.
She remembered Chairman Gu Changfeng and her phone call:
"There's a wild energy in this kid's writing..."
Now it seems that it was more than just wildness.
...
The next morning, at Jiangcheng No.1 Middle School.
Although it's the first week after school starts
Despite the pressure from the homeroom teacher on the first day, the entire second-year building was still immersed in a sense of relief after surviving a disaster.
After all, there is still time.
Only a few corners of Class 3, Grade 11,
The atmosphere was as tense as a violin string about to snap.
Those were a few "brave warriors" who signed up for the "Fu Zhi Yao" essay contest.
Lin Que had just stuffed his schoolbag into the desk drawer when
Before I could even put a straw into the bag of hot soy milk, I was surrounded by several figures.
The leader was Zhang Ya, the academic representative, followed by Liu Hui, the arts and culture representative.
There's also Li Bowen, a top student who usually wears thick-rimmed glasses and only knows how to bury himself in studying.
These students are the class's literary backbone, and their essays consistently rank among the top five on the list.
But at this moment,
They all had dark circles under their eyes and unfocused gazes, as if they had just escaped from a refugee camp.
"Lin Que!"
Zhang Ya looked utterly devastated.
"You saw the preliminary round questions too, right?"
Silent Thunder, what kind of weird title is this?!
I thought about it all night, I even pulled out a handful of hair, but I couldn't utter a single word!
"yes."
Liu Hui also had a bitter face.
"I originally wanted to write about fatherly love being as steadfast as a mountain, silent and unwavering."
I wrote 500 words, but I couldn't even stand reading them myself. They were too cliché!
I feel like the judges would throw me in the trash after watching just the beginning.
Li Bowen pushed up his glasses and looked at Lin Que with a serious expression:
"Lin Que, you have the most ideas. Do you have any ideas?"
Let's brainstorm a bit and soak up some good luck!
Lin Que took a sip of soy milk, feeling the warm current slide down his esophagus, and closed his eyes contentedly.
"A thought process?"
Lin Que swallowed the soy milk and thought for a moment.
"Hmm... I don't have any ideas."
"ah?"
Zhang Ya was in despair.
"Even you have no ideas? Should we just forfeit the match?"
"no."
Lin Que slowly took out a neatly folded tissue from his pocket and wiped his mouth.
"What I mean is, I've already finished writing, so I don't need any more ideas."
The air suddenly fell silent for three seconds.
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