Time is something you can neither grasp nor hold onto.
Friday has arrived.
The last English class,
The loudspeaker was playing listening materials with a British accent, which sounded like chanting.
A newly graduated English teacher passionately delivers a lecture on the podium, chalk dust dancing wildly in the sunlight.
The back row had already collapsed.
Only a few top students in the front row, relying solely on willpower to persevere, were still making scratching noises on their exam papers.
Trying to grasp those few vague words.
Lin Que twirled his pen.
My gaze passed over the window frame and landed on the sycamore tree by the playground.
The newly sprouted green leaves swayed in the wind.
In this lingering winter, this bit of greenery seems rather jarring.
He is working on the next chapter of "The Ferryman".
The "fox spirit's medicine" has such a strong aftereffect that online discussions have moved beyond simple horror.
It has risen to the level of philosophical speculation about the physical body and the soul.
Red Fox sent me a message last night.
Several film and television companies came knocking, offering high prices, all wanting to discuss film and television adaptations.
Lin Que did not budge.
In this world where entertainment is scarce
Every brick he throws creates a bottomless pit.
It's not ready yet.
If it burns too quickly, it could scorch this barren land.
We need to let the bullets fly for a while longer.
"Ring ring—"
The school bell is like a pardon.
Before the English teacher could even finish saying "Class is over," the back door was pushed open.
Fei Yuncheng walked in.
The usually stern and unsmiling head of the teaching department had an unusually relaxed expression today.
His gaze swept across the classroom, and his tone became serious:
"Lin Que, Zhang Ya, Li Bowen, come out for a moment."
The noise in the classroom instantly decreased.
The students who were originally planning to sprint to the cafeteria to grab food...
The car came to a screeching halt, and dozens of eyes immediately focused on it.
These three are the seeded members of their class's "Shake It Up" competition.
Why are they all being called out together? Is it for the special training next Monday?
The students were buzzing with discussion and speculation.
The three followed Fei Yuncheng through the long corridor.
"Director, what's the matter?"
Zhang Ya was unsure and asked in a low voice.
Fei Yuncheng didn't turn around; his leather shoes clicked crisply on the marble floor.
"Good news. A guest wants to see you."
I walked all the way to the teaching affairs office on the third floor of the administration building.
The door was ajar, and a faint aroma of tea wafted out.
That's the flavor of good tea.
Fei Yuncheng knocked twice on the door and pushed it open:
"The person has arrived."
Lin Que followed at the very back, swaying as he entered the house.
Two people were sitting on the leather sofa.
The one on the left has gray hair but is in good spirits. He is holding a purple clay teapot and is squinting as he blows on it.
The one on the right is slightly younger, around forty years old.
Wearing silver-rimmed glasses and exuding an air of refinement, he was smiling as he looked towards the doorway.
The old man, Lin Que, knew him.
Li Yuanchao, Visiting Professor of the School of Literature, Jiangcheng University.
"Professor Li?"
Zhang Ya was startled and quickly bowed, "Hello, Professor Li."
Lin Que also bowed slightly: "Hello, Professor Li."
Only Li Bowen.
As if frozen in place, she stood motionless at the doorway, her face flushed red without her noticing.
He lowered his head and desperately shrank behind Lin Que.
He tried to use Lin Que's physique to block his own massive body.
"Why are you hiding?"
Li Yuanchao put down the purple clay teapot and snorted irritably.
Zhang Ya was stunned.
Looking at Li Yuanchao, then at Li Bowen who was huddled up like a quail, he was completely bewildered.
"Li Bowen, why didn't you say hello? That's so rude of you."
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