The rubber track smelled of plastic and sweat. April afternoon sun, like molten gold, poured over Qingcheng No. 2 High's field. The PA announced results in broken bursts; an electric hiss undercut the noise. Class 2?7 stood by the check? in; class rep Yu Bo's voice was on the verge of cracking.
"Where is he? Lin Yichen! Third leg!" Yu Bo stood on tiptoe, tapping the roll and scanning the crowd. A dark sweat patch spread across his T? shirt; he was so restless his hair stuck up. "Seen him? Black? rimmed glasses, camera round his neck!"
A few boys shook their heads. "He was over by the pit shooting earlier. Don't worry—probably hunting an angle." The long jump was over; the pit sat some distance from the track. Yu Bo kicked an empty bottle and it clattered away.
Lin lay on the grassy berm at the track's edge, knees on the dirt, neck tipped forward. Through the viewfinder the noise fell away; the world shrank to a bright rectangle. A few athletes folded mats slowly; their shadows stretched long. Side backlight picked out dust motes that seemed to dance.
His finger rested on the cold shutter; he pressed down just slightly and held his breath, waiting for the instant that turns the ordinary into a picture. The camera hood had left a faint red mark on his brow.
A cheer rose from the sandpit.
Someone was jumping.
Instinct swung the camera. The focus ring spun; the frame slid past mats and bars and locked onto a figure in midair.
A girl. Her school jacket was tied at her waist; the red? and? white jersey ballooned in the wind. She leapt high—calf muscles taut like wings. The chaotic field—runners, shouts, flags—blurred into pools of color; she alone was bathed in warm, golden light. Strands of hair flew and stuck to the sweat at her neck. Her lips were pressed; her cheeks flushed from exertion, but her eyes stayed razor? focused on the sand.
The shutter clicked, crisp.
She landed—heel digging into sand to absorb the shock, pitching forward a half step before steadying. Dust rose in a column of gold and dusted her calves. She wiped her brow, breathing hard, scanning around as if checking her mark.
Then she froze.
Her gaze cut across the field, through the roar and heat shimmer—and landed on his lens.
He forgot to lower the camera, forgot to stand. He felt nailed to the berm, finger still on the shutter. The viewfinder image was unnervingly clear: a damp cheek, a brow pinched in thought, eyes that shone from concentration and now brimmed with curiosity. Time slowed; wind, announcements, and cheers receded. He could only hear his heart thudding.
She tilted her head, trying to place him, eyes flicking between his face and the "black thing" in his hands. Seconds—maybe longer. Then Yu Bo's frantic yell cut through like thunder:
"Lin Yichen—where the hell are you! Relay—!!"
The shout yanked him back. His hand trembled; the camera nearly slipped. Heat climbed to his ears. He sprang up too fast; his knee went numb. One hand clutched the strap, the other brushed grit from his pants, and he ran toward the check? in, swallowed by a tide of classmates. At the pit she watched him go for a beat, then let her gaze fall away.
Yu Bo grabbed his arm and dragged him into the check? in. "Third leg! Hold the baton! Mess this up and I'll throw your camera in the moat!" A plastic number? six bib snapped onto his chest and jabbed.
"Just…looking for an angle," he panted; the crowd swallowed his words. He shoved the camera into a black sling and zipped it with furtive haste, as if tucking away something hot to touch.
"Angles, my foot!" Yu Bo glared. "Don't ruin the class points!" He barked at the others to get in place. The PA called the boys' 4×400 and the start area erupted. The white lane line stung his eyes; the track felt hot through his shoes. The sun hammered down; sweat beaded on his nose. He breathed deep to quiet the animal in his chest, eyes fixed on the bend for the second runner. His fingers worried at his trouser seam, as if erasing grass stains—or the pounding in his ribs.
The crowd spilled out of campus like a tide, taking the noise with it. Silence settled over the school, warm with afterglow.
Class 2?7's room was half empty; fluorescent tubes hummed faintly. A weary classmate pushed a broom, leaving wet streaks. He lingered by the window. The black camera bag lay on the desk with its zipper cracked open, the dark? blue strap peeking out. He hesitated, then reached in and pulled the camera out—still warm.
His thumb hovered over the play button but didn't press. Images from the afternoon looped in his head: the hush amid the chaos, the frozen figure, sand motes kicked up, that split? second exchange of looks. His pulse faltered. He took a breath and pressed.
The LCD flashed. He jabbed the pad, flipping back through photos—lazy backs folding mats, a rack casting a long shadow, sunlight carving dust into lines—until the last frame.
That photo hooked him like a magnet.
Her jump sat perfectly centered. The sun's gold seemed made for her: the arc of her hair, the taut folds of her shirt, the line of her calf, toes curled as she landed, a footprint pressed into the sand's edge—every detail razor? sharp. The background melted into a warm blur that pushed her and that intent look forward; you could even see a tiny bead of sweat at her nose.
This was the one.
He leaned forward, thumb frozen. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and chalk; a bird beat past the trees outside. Time thinned. The photo seemed to hold its own temperature; the eyes on the screen burned into him.
"Hey! Still here?" Yu Bo's voice detonated—he barreled in with a bulging basketball bag and yanked a chair out. "The teacher wants the sports copy—now! Campus Window needs a cover. Don't tell me you haven't handed anything in!" The broom nearly clattered from the cleaner's hand.
He snapped the screen shut as if caught. The motion was sharp; his fingertip stung on metal.
"Right…right." His voice was hoarse. He shoved the camera back in the bag, zipped it, and shouldered it. He kept his steps quick but light, exiting into a corridor banded with sunset. The publicity office sat in the admin block.
When he pushed the door open, the smell of ink and paper hit him. The editor of Campus Window was a small, neat man in his fifties with thick black frames, buried under a pile of copy and photos, brow knotted.
"You here?" the editor barked without looking up. "Yichen? The photos—Yu Bo says you shot the long jump?"
He scrolled to the frame and turned the screen to the editor. The man, who had been about to toss a sheet, froze. Behind thick lenses, tired eyes suddenly lit.
"Well…" The editor leaned in, thumb flicking over the display—zooming, pulling back—studying the soft blur of the background and the girl pinned at the center. He made a small, satisfied noise.
The office hummed with the AC. The editor toggled through a few frames, then stopped on the jump, hit play again, and looked up—his expression had changed.
"This is it," he said. "Cover it is. The light, the motion, the composition." He patted the camera like a prized find. "Nice work—quiet and sharp. Export the high? res."
He plugged the cable into an aging desktop and waited as the progress bar crawled. Sunset climbed the opposite building and gilded the room in warm light. The image filled the screen: the texture of sunlight, the curl of hair, sand scattering—every element intact.
"Perfect," the editor murmured, eyes bright. "This one's the cover."