The library's air conditioning was always too strong. Lin Wanwan pulled her coat tighter, her fingers clattering on the keyboard. The time in the lower right corner of the screen ticked down like a death knell—only three hours left until the deadline. The third message from the school magazine editor lay in the chat box: "Wanwan, is the manuscript still alive?"
She huddled in her usual spot by the window on the third floor, her "refuge." Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow on the back of her hands. It was quiet all around, only the rustling of turning pages and the occasional cough.
Across from her sat a boy.
Wanwan glanced up and caught a glimpse of his profile—white shirt, head slightly bowed, intently looking at something spread out on the table. Sheet music? It was indeed sheet music, along with a German book so thick it could be used as a brick. A music major, she thought. Her fingers didn't stop, continuing to dance across the keyboard.
Finally, as she typed the last period, she leaned back and let out a long sigh. Save, send, close the laptop. The actions were fluid and seamless.
Then she glanced at the time.
"Oh no!" The word caught in her throat. There were still ten minutes until her class; the classroom was in the Literature Department, at least an eight-minute walk away. Wanwan hurriedly stuffed her laptop into her canvas bag, but as she stood up, the bag strap snagged on the chair armrest. She pulled hard—
She lost her balance and tumbled forward.
In her panic, she reached out to grab something, her fingertips touching the edge of the table. Then came a crashing sound, like something had collapsed.
She stumbled a couple of steps to regain her balance, and when she looked up, her heart sank.
She had knocked over the table opposite her.
Sheet music was scattered everywhere, papers flying like startled white birds. A black thermos had overturned, its dark brown liquid rapidly swallowing the notes on the pages.
"I'm so sorry!" She practically lunged forward, frantically trying to retrieve the soaked papers. The top notebook, filled with dense handwritten notes, was now smudged with coffee, the ink turning into blurry clouds.
A hand reached out and pressed down on her wrist.
The hand was long and slender, with distinct knuckles and thin calluses on the base of the thumb. Wanwan looked up along the hand and met a pair of eyes.
It was the boy. He stood up, taller than she had imagined. He looked down at the mess on the floor, his face expressionless, but his brows were slightly furrowed. His lips were pressed into a thin line.
"Don't move," he said, his voice low, barely above the library's permitted volume. "The more you move, the deeper it gets soaked."
Wanwan froze, her hand still hanging in mid-air. People around them were already looking over, their gazes filled with curiosity, displeasure, and impatience. Her cheeks began to burn, the heat spreading from her ears down her neck.
The boy crouched down, carefully moving the dry sheet music aside, pulling out a tissue, and gently pressing it against the edges of the wet pages—his movements were very light, as if handling something fragile. Wanwan noticed that his fingertips unconsciously softened their pressure when touching the sheet music.
"I'll pay for it," she said, crouching down as well, her voice barely a whisper, "These books, these sheet music, I…"
"You can't afford to pay for them." He didn't look up.
These words were like a fine needle, piercing Wanwan's heart. A mixture of grievance and embarrassment welled up, choking her throat.
The boy paused. He looked up, this time looking at her seriously—her flushed face, her bewildered eyes, and her hands gripping the backpack strap tightly, her knuckles white.
"These notes," he pointed to the densely packed small print along the edges of the sheet music, "are photocopies of manuscripts my teacher brought back from Vienna, the only ones available."
Wanwan's heart sank.
By the time the librarian arrived, the boy had already collected most of the pages. The soaked sheet music lay alone to one side, dark water stains spreading across the cover like an unsightly scar.
"What happened?" the teacher asked, adjusting his glasses.
"I accidentally…" Wanwan blurted out.
"An accident," the boy said simultaneously. He glanced at Wanwan, his expression complex, then turned to the teacher. "I'll handle it."
The teacher clearly recognized him, nodding. "Jiang Chen, you two can discuss it yourselves. Don't bother others." He then left, his footsteps disappearing among the bookshelves.
Jiang Chen.
Wanwan paused, the name sounding familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.
"At least let me do something," she said again, her voice more determined than before. "Cleaning fee, or I can help you rewrite your notes? I write quickly and neatly…"
Jiang Chen had already stood up, carrying the stack of books. Sunlight streamed from behind him, the edges of his white shirt gleaming slightly. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the lines clean and sharp.
"No need." The two words were crisp and decisive, like a knife cut. "Next time in the library, watch where you're going."
Wanwan opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Jiang Chen had already turned and walked towards the checkout counter. His back was straight, his steps unwavering.
She stood there, frozen, watching the white shirt disappear behind the two rows of bookshelves. A small puddle of water remained on the floor, gleaming brightly in the sunlight. Her phone in her backpack started vibrating again; she knew without looking that it was her roommate asking where she was.
But she didn't move.
Looking down at her palm, she saw a small coffee stain and a scrap of paper that had fallen from the sheet music. On the edge of the scrap, half a slender character—the corner of the character "Chen."
Wanwan slowly clenched her fist, the sharp edge of the scrap of paper digging into her skin.
She suddenly remembered. Last week, Su Qing was scrolling through the campus forum when she suddenly shoved her phone in front of Wanwan's face: "Look! Jiang Chen from the music department is going to the national competition next month—by the way, he's also our teaching assistant for 'Music Appreciation'!"
Next Tuesday is the first class of "Music Appreciation."
Wanwan looked in the direction Jiang Chen had left and suddenly felt that this "accident" was probably just the beginning.