Chapter 27: Little Fairy

Yin Xian didn’t expect to receive a reply so quickly.

Heavy rain was falling outside the classroom window, the air thick with moisture, and the damp weather made everyone drowsy. When the bell rang, several students in the front row simultaneously lay down on their desks for a nap.

Yin Xian rubbed his tired temples and swapped out his books for the next class.

A strange sensation made him flip the book over—there was a letter tucked firmly inside his Mathematics book.

He pulled out the envelope. The original recipient address he’d written had been crossed out and replaced with his own.

Such fast delivery and reply—so unnaturally efficient it felt almost supernatural.

What lessened the creepiness of the supernatural aspect was that this ghost seemed quite good at conserving paper.

Unfolding the letter, Yin Xian began to read.

“In the future, I want to become a millionaire. When I do, I’ll eat all kinds of delicious food in big mouthfuls every day, then sleep when I’m full… This Watermelon is even rounder than before.”

Reading that, he let out a quiet snort.

His deskmate who had just returned to class glanced over curiously.

“Reading something funny?”

“No.” Yin Xian folded the letter and blocked his view.

Because this was one of the few interesting things in an otherwise dull academic life, he found himself distracted during class, thinking about the contents of the letter.

Probably a cheerful village girl? Her words had a kind of simple, naive charm.

She really liked doodling and scribbling. Parts of the letter were scratched out with a pen—she probably realized what she wrote sounded silly.

But she hadn’t scratched hard enough.

And precisely because she tried to hide it, he paid extra attention to those scratched-out parts.

Smiling faintly, Yin Xian neatly copied down the equation on the blackboard, thinking: I’ll write her back once I’m back in the dorm.

The rain was coming down even harder when school let out.

Water had pooled on the field up to his knees. Yin Xian rolled up his school pants and walked out under his umbrella.

Parents picking up their children crowded the school gates, and the parked cars outside had completely blocked both ends of the road.

The whole world felt cold and sticky from the rain. People looked irritated, and the sound of car horns echoed down the street.

Saying goodbye to his classmates, Yin Xian waded through the dirty water and took a shortcut.

He didn’t look up to search for anyone. He knew no one would come pick him up.

This kind of weather left him feeling hollow in both heart and stomach. Before heading to Tutoring School, he decided to stop at a restaurant for a steaming bowl of noodles—extra chili.

He quickened his pace, brushing past those anxious gazes, disappearing alone into the curtain of rain.

After trudging through the storm, Yin Xian finally arrived at the noodle shop, his pants soaked through.

He let out a deep sigh and closed his umbrella.

As he turned to enter, he suddenly came face-to-face with someone who’d been sheltering from the rain just outside.

Their eyes met.

She furrowed her brow, looking a little embarrassed.

A middle-aged man holding a woman’s handbag stood between her and him.

Yin Xian looked at her, then at the man beside her, swallowing the word on the tip of his tongue—“Mom.”

She pressed her lips together and quickly looked away, staring out at the rain-soaked street.

Yin Xian instantly sobered. Gripping the umbrella handle tightly, he pushed the door open and went inside.

His parents were divorced. He lived with his father, and he hadn’t seen his mother in years.

Yin Xian had once hoped that his mom would miss him as much as he missed her. He had fantasized about her coming to find him, and when she did, he would show her his excellent report card… but he hadn’t expected their reunion to be like this.

He devoured the whole bowl of noodles in big gulps.

Plenty of chili and scalding broth didn’t manage to warm him up.

When Yin Xian left the noodle shop, his mom was already gone.

The rain hadn’t stopped. Holding his umbrella, he suddenly didn’t know where to go.

He paced the street in frustration, his clothes drying and soaking again.

In the end, Yin Xian decided to go to a phone booth and call his dad.

The monotone of the ringing stretched into a taut line, a robotic voice repeated: No one is answering.

On the fifth try, someone finally picked up.

“Hello? What’s up?”

“Dad.”

His father’s voice was dry: “Say it, what is it?”

Yin Xian thought for a moment, then asked.

“What happens after I finish high school?”

“After? You’ll go to a good university, study engineering or something…”

He cut his dad off.

“I mean, after high school, I won’t have to stay in Tutoring School anymore, right?”

“Of course, universities have dorms.”

His dad waited. Yin Xian said nothing.

“I’m busy. If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up.”

He held the receiver, just about to say something, when the line cut off.

At seventeen, Yin Xian often found himself hating himself.

For the first time ever, he skipped his evening tutoring class and locked himself in the dorm.

He wanted to do something else—something unrelated to studying. But then what?

Yin Xian couldn’t think of anything he was interested in, any way to relieve stress—not even a favorite song.

It was all books. His backpack, his locker, his desk—nothing but books. Nothing else to be found.

There was a knife in his pen holder, used for sharpening pencils.

Yin Xian saw it.

He was full of pent-up frustration. His nails left deep marks in his skin.

He couldn’t hold back. He reached for the small knife.

Just as he was about to cut into his skin, his elbow knocked over the Mathematics book, and the envelope fell out.

Yin Xian glanced at the floor.

His backpack had been soaked by the rain, and the letter hadn’t been spared—a corner was soaked and soft.

He picked up the letter, now looking just as battered as he felt.

The paper inside was torn and ruined, some of the ink smudged—“Do you rarely get to go home?” was especially blurred.

Yin Xian put down the knife, grabbed a pen, and irritably scribbled four words.

【I have no home】

After writing it, he folded the ruined paper roughly, stuffed it in the envelope, and changed the address.

Would she still reply?

Chin resting on his desk, Yin Xian stared at the envelope.

As he watched, it vanished into thin air.

When it reappeared, the soaked corner was completely dry.

She had still used old letter paper—it had been dried and the damaged areas carefully patched with clear tape.

Yin Xian opened the letter.

This time, she didn’t write any words.

She drew a big house around his words “I have no home.”

The house had a chimney, windows, a ladder, a stone path in front of the door; outside were a sun, a few flowers, a tree, a little rabbit squatting beside the house, and wavy lines that probably meant a stream.

He stared at her simple drawing, trying to figure out what the circles and squares represented.

After a long time, he folded the patched-up letter and placed it in the drawer.

He wrote a new one, asking her:

【Are you alive?】

The reply came quickly—so quickly it was as if she’d been waiting, pen in hand.

【Haha, I’m a living little fairy.】

Her handwriting was round and chubby. The final character “女” danced off the page like a little figure with one leg kicked high.

They no longer used formal letter format. It became a back-and-forth, like passing notes in class—swift, frequent exchanges.

【Is it raining over there?】

【It’s always sunny here! The sun is blazing, and so many flowers have bloomed on the spring mountain. The sky is unbelievably blue. Tomorrow’s Saturday, no school—I’ll go catch fish by the creek with Mom.】

【That sounds wonderful.】

【Is it raining in your city?】

【Yeah, hasn’t stopped.】

【Did you get wet?】

【Yeah.】

【Did you take a hot shower? Don’t catch a cold.】

As he read that line, Yin Xian sneezed loudly.

She was right. He really should take a hot shower.

Still, he wanted to write a bit more.

【I’m fine. I’m healthy. I won’t catch a cold.】

【Sounds like you’re being tough? Colds are no fun.】

【Got it.】

【I’m going to sleep. Let’s write again tomorrow.】

【Okay.】

Yin Xian sat idly for twenty minutes. No new letter arrived.

He stood up and straightened his messy desk. The knife was returned to the pen holder.

Time to shower…

Yin Xian opened the drawer, unable to resist taking one more look at the drawing on the letter.

“Little fairy.”

He said the words aloud and felt that her identity was quite believable.