The bell rang.
The proctor was timing himself and speaking very quickly:
"The exam is over. Stop answering questions."
Another proctor's emotionless voice rang out.
This was followed by the ear-piercing sound of tables and chairs being dragged across the floor.
And the clattering sound of the exam papers being quickly collected.
Lin Que put down his pen and rubbed his slightly sore wrist.
The moment the answer sheet filled with writing was taken away, he felt a long-lost sense of exhaustion.
It's like letting all the blood that didn't have a chance to flow in the past life drain away through the tip of the pen.
"Phew—it's finally over!"
Wu Di, sitting next to him, plopped back down in his chair.
He looked like he'd just been pulled out of the water, slumped on the table, groaning in exhaustion.
"Oh no, I haven't finished the final paragraph yet!"
I had just written "Teacher Jian Shen's light illuminated me" when the test paper was taken away!
Now the light won't reach me, I'm going blind!
Zhang Ya, sitting in the front row, put the expensive fountain pen back into her pencil case and said without turning her head:
"Actually, it's not that difficult. Just apply those famous quotes from Grandpa Namiya in 'The Miracles of the Namiya Manga'."
By incorporating relevant social issues, the structure becomes more stable.
She turned around, her gaze lightly sweeping over Lin Que.
"Of course, the premise is that you don't go off-topic."
This is a proper literary competition, not a ghost story contest.
She looked at Lin Que with a hint of provocation in her eyes:
"Lin Que, have you finished writing?"
Are you still thinking about how to slip a few ghosts into the letter?
This is the "Trouble-Solving Cup" selection; going off-topic will result in a large deduction of points.
Lin Que threw down his pen and leaned back:
"Don't worry, this time it's written in plain language."
"Human language?"
Zhang Ya seemed to have heard a joke and picked up her schoolbag.
"I hope the examiner can understand what you're saying, and that you don't end up getting a zero again, so that Teacher Shen has to go to the academic affairs office to bail you out."
After saying that, she hugged her pencil case, turned around, and left.
Wu Di leaned closer, looking worried:
"Brother Que, you really didn't write this randomly, did you?"
This time, Sister Bingbing is personally grading the papers. If you cause any more trouble, she might just replace your brain.
Lin Que turned to look out the window.
The autumn sunlight was a bit dazzling, but it couldn't penetrate the deep pool in his eyes.
"write without basis?"
He murmured softly and turned away.
"This is probably the most serious I've ever written in my life."
...
Saturday, the marking team office.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of tea and the scratching sound of a red pen scribbling across paper.
In order to get results as soon as possible,
All the teachers in the Grade 11 Chinese language group are working overtime to grade the exam papers.
"Ouch, I can't take it anymore."
A male teacher with a Mediterranean hairstyle took off his glasses.
What's wrong with these students?
The topic is "A Letter," but how come six or seven out of ten of them are written to their future selves?
The rest were all written to my deceased grandmother.
Have all the grandmothers in our Jiangcheng suffered a collective disaster this month?
Another female teacher echoed with a wry smile:
"Me too. It's all platitudes, like what Professor Jian Shen said, or what a warm lighthouse is."
It looks like it's full of positive energy, but it reads like plain water—it has no flavor at all.
Today's children, in order to meet the requirements of the questions, have abandoned even their genuine feelings.
Shen Qingqiu sat by the window, the red pen in her hand rising and falling.
She rubbed her throbbing temples.
Looking at the monotonous words "lighthouse," "warmth," and "redemption" on the exam papers, I felt a sour taste in my stomach.
These kids wrote "healing" as "depressing."
It's all empty rhetoric and grandiose; it has no humanity whatsoever.
She picked up the next exam paper.
The name field was obscured by a seal line.
But seeing the sharp, forceful strokes of the handwriting,
Shen Qingqiu's heart skipped a beat.
It is Lin Que.
She took a deep breath, adjusted her posture, and picked up the red pen.
She was mentally prepared, no matter how unconventional his writing might be.
As long as the writing is decent, she'll give it a passing grade.
After all, it's a bit much to ask a student with a personality like him to write a heartwarming letter.
My gaze fell on the black title line.
A Reply to Heaven
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