The first monthly exam came quietly, like a storm quietly gathering outside the window. It was late in October, and the air in the morning began to bring a clear sharpness. When breathing, the nasal cavity was slightly stinging, and the white gas exhaled condensed into a fleeting mist in front of me. The noise of the past in the teaching building has receded, and there are no longer protracted footsteps and unscrupulous laughter in the corridor. Instead, there is a tense silence, which is only occasionally broken by the harsh sound of the chair legs scratching the ground and the dry sound of paper turning over. Every desk was stripped of the usual mess - the colorful pencil bag was gone, the spread notebook was gone, and the half-drinked mineral water bottle was gone - leaving only the pale and scratched desktop and the blank answer sheet waiting to be filled.
Doris sat in the middle of the classroom, her head buried very low, and her dark hair hung down, covering most of her face like a curtain. The tip of the pen moved on the paper in a small and restrained amplitude, and sometimes paused in front of a certain question. She frowned slightly and read the question again. The geography test paper is not difficult for her - the map and landform have always had a clear and visible logic - but the heavy silence in the examination room is like an invisible hand on her shoulder. She could hear every small sound: the ticking of the wall clock above the blackboard, the sighing breath of a student outside the third row, and the sound of the invigilator's leather shoes paced slowly in the aisle.
Dyson is one of the supervisors. Shortly after the exam began, he walked into the examination room with a slow and elegant pace, which was no different from his lecture in class. The gray suit jacket was neatly buttoned, his hands were loosely clasped behind his back, and his eyes gently swept over rows of drooping heads, with a calm and almost alienated concentration. He doesn't look like he is looking for a cheating invigilator, but more like he is reading a landscape that he has already known in his heart. Occasionally, he would stop at a table, take a look at the test paper, and continue to move forward without saying a word.
Doris didn't see him at first. She was immersed in a topic about river sedimentation, sketching a rough profile on the corner of the answer sheet, and the tip of the pen was hesitating whether to add the dotted line representing the river. Suddenly, a shadow fell on her desk. It was not the vague light and shadow cast by the window frame, nor the brief dimness when the clouds passed by - it was a real human shadow, blocking the warm light on her paper. She continued to write for a moment, unwilling to interrupt her thoughts, but the shadow did not move. Then, a soft and deliberate voice sounded - a shoe tip touched the metal leg of her desk. Tap. Tap. It's not loud, but it can't be ignored. The table vibrated slightly under the arm.
She raised her head.
Dyson stood next to her, leaned slightly to her table, and his eyes fell on her test paper. His expression is hard to interpret. There is no smile, and there is no gentle and slightly ironic curve that usually hangs on the corner of the mouth. His eyes slowly scanned her handwriting line by line, as if he was reading a text that needed to be carefully guessed. He didn't say anything. The silence lengthened and thickened between them, and the fine sound of the whole examination room filled every inch of the gap - the rustling of the tip of the pen and the rustling of the paper somewhere in the distance.
Doris felt her heartbeat begin to accelerate, and it hit her ribs dullly and forcefully. Why is he standing here? Did she write something wrong? Are the words too small and the pictures too slobbled? She looked down at her test paper, trying to find out what was wrong, but the words and lines were exactly the same as a moment ago. When she raised her head again, his eyes still did not move. He was still watching, still silent, and the weight of being stared at almost had a substance - warm and disturbing pressure on her skin.
He stood there for a long time. It took so long that Doris began to clearly realize her breathing and realized the slight tremor when her fingers put down the pen; so long that the classmate next to her raised her eyes curiously and glanced and quickly withdrew her eyes; so long that the pointer of the wall clock slowly passed for several minutes. She didn't dare to make a sound or look away. She just sat stiffly, her eyes fixed on his face, waiting for some kind of signal - a nod, a frown, and a soft point.
But there is nothing. Finally, he straightened up, turned around and walked away without saying a word. The footsteps went away along the aisle, steady and calm, as if nothing had happened. Doris looked at his back - the outline of the shoulder line, the line of the suit jacket, and the slight angle when he turned his head slightly to look at another student's test paper - until he disappeared at the door at the end of the examination room.
She stared in that direction for a long time, holding the pen in her hand and forgetting to put it down. The test paper was blurred in front of my eyes. Those clear and orderly thoughts just now are like fallen leaves scattered by a gust of wind. What's going on? Why did he stand for so long? Why did she kick her table leg - not heavy and not angry, but obviously deliberately, as if to attract her attention? And why didn't you say a word?
Those questions hovered in her mind without answers until the bell rang and the invigilator began to collect the papers.
After the exam, Doris found him in the corridor outside the teacher's office. He stood by the window, with a pile of test papers under his armpit, looking at the gray afternoon outside. The light fell softly on the outline of his side face. She hesitated for a moment, and her courage was slightly shaken. But confusion is stronger than shyness. She stepped forward, her steps hurried and firm.
"Mr. Dyson." She said.
He turned around, raised his eyebrows slightly, and asked politely. Doris. What's the matter?"
She took a breath. Why did you stand at my desk for so long during the exam? Are there any mistakes on my test paper? Did I write something wrong?"
He looked at her for a moment, his expression was gentle and calm. Then he shook his head. I haven't been to your examination room.
Those words were simple without any hesitation. Doris's eyes widened and she was speechless for a moment. But - you are obviously here. You are standing next to me. You kicked my table. You have read my test paper for a long time--"
Dyson frowned slightly, but it was not an expression of remembering anything. It was a confusion that naturally emerged in the face of a completely incomprehensive statement. You must have misremembered," he said gently. "I will supervise the examination in the East Building this morning. I haven't been to your examination room.
Doris opened her mouth and closed it again. A strange and dizzying sense of imbalance came, as if the ground under his feet suddenly tilted. She wanted to argue, to insist, to describe the exact color of his coat and the specific sound of his shoe tip hitting the legs of the table. But his calm and reassive denial blocked all the words. He didn't lie - she could see it. He really doesn't remember, or he really hasn't been there. Both possibilities are equally disturbing.
She muttered something - maybe an apology, maybe an ambiguous excuse - and then turned around and walked away. My cheeks are burning. Did she imagine it? Is it the pressure of the exam and her own too strong feelings that created an illusion out of thin air from the silence? This thought made her embarrassed.
Many years later, when the examination room and those gray afternoons had retreated far behind, she asked him again. They sat in a small cafe, and the heat in the cup rose in the soft light. She mentioned that day to him - that kick, that long silence, that denial. As he listened, a faint smile appeared on the corner of his mouth, and his fingers were around the cup. When she finished speaking, he shook his head.
"I don't remember." He said. There was no cover in the voice, only a frank blank left after the memory faded to unrecognizable.
Doris looked at him across the table and suddenly felt the dizziness of imbalance when she stood in the corridor many years ago. But at this moment, it is harmonized with something else - a quiet and astringent acceptance. Maybe he was there at that time. Maybe he is not here. Maybe that moment is so important to her just because she needs it. She will never know the exact answer. And perhaps, she thought that all the moments that shaped her were like this - the real and the imagined, the remembered and the misremembered, were strung together by the thin threads of her own fragile and stubborn heart, barely forming a chapter.