Before the Bell Rings (Chapters 6~8)

#2025-0813

Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter 6 – Waves and Whispers

The salt-tinged breeze carried the low roar of the Pacific, steady and patient, as Mike followed the narrow path down to the rocky shore. Late afternoon light slanted across the water, turning the waves into shifting panels of silver and blue. He spotted Emma sitting on a flat boulder, her notebook open but untouched on her lap. She looked small against the endless horizon, yet somehow at home.

Mike hesitated before approaching, kicking at a stray pebble. “You always come here after school?” he asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the waves.

Emma glanced back and smiled faintly. “Not always. Just… when I need to hear something bigger than my own thoughts.” She patted the rock beside her. “Sit.”

He lowered himself next to her, pulling his jacket tighter against the wind. For a while, they didn’t speak. The water crashed and hissed against the rocks below, gulls wheeled overhead, and the rhythm began to slow Mike’s restless thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally, “about how many schools I’ve been to. Eight. Maybe nine, if you count that summer term in Okinawa.”

Emma’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s… a lot.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. You know what happens when you’re the new kid every year? You stop trying to stick to people. You figure it’s easier to just… stay in the shallow end.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing a little in sympathy. “Is that what you’ve been doing here? Staying in the shallow end?”

Mike shrugged. “At first. But then…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish. The truth was, Emma and Ryo had pulled him into deeper water without even meaning to.

The next wave struck the rocks hard, spraying them lightly. Emma brushed salt droplets off her notebook. “I get it,” she said quietly. “But you know, some things are worth diving for, even if you don’t know how deep it goes.”

Mike studied her profile. She wasn’t looking at him; her gaze was fixed on the restless sea. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s your thing?”

Her lips curved in a small, almost shy smile. “Marine biology. I’ve been obsessed since I was little—books, documentaries, beach clean-ups, all of it. I want to study it for real someday, maybe work on conservation projects. You know, actually help the oceans instead of just staring at them.”

“That’s… actually pretty awesome.” Mike meant it. He imagined her on some research boat, wind in her hair, talking about coral reefs or whales with the same quiet passion she had now.

A voice called from behind them. “Figures I’d find you two here.”

They turned to see Ryo picking his way down the rocky slope, his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets. He stopped just above them, the light catching on his dark hair. “You could’ve told me,” he said to Mike, a hint of reproach in his tone.

“Told you what?” Mike asked.

“That you hang out here. Thought I was the only one who liked this spot.”

Emma grinned. “There’s plenty of ocean for everyone.”

Ryo hopped down onto a lower rock and sat, close enough for the three of them to form a loose triangle. For a moment, no one spoke. The only conversation was the endless dialogue between wave and stone.

Finally, Ryo said, “You know, I used to come here to get away from people. But now…” He hesitated, glancing between them. “It’s different. Feels better, I guess, not being alone.”

Mike felt a strange knot loosen in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Emma’s gaze moved from one boy to the other, something thoughtful in her expression. “The ocean connects everything, even places far apart. I like to think people can be like that too.”

They sat there until the sun sank lower, painting the horizon in muted golds and purples. The tide was rising, waves reaching a little higher each time, as if eager to touch their feet.

Ryo skimmed a pebble into the water. “So, we meeting here again?”

Mike glanced at Emma, then back at Ryo. “Yeah. Why not?”

Emma closed her notebook without writing a single word. “Next time,” she said, “maybe we’ll see the tide pools. They hide things you wouldn’t notice unless you really look.”

The way she said it made Mike think she wasn’t only talking about sea creatures.

As they climbed back up the slope together, the sound of the waves followed them—steady, persistent, impossible to ignore. Mike glanced once more at the horizon where the last light of day kissed the darkening sea.

Far off, the lighthouse beam began its slow sweep, cutting a steady path through the dusk. Somewhere beyond the rocks and tides, it promised direction—waiting for those ready to look.

= = =

Chapter 7 – The Art Festival

The week after the creek-side performance, a new kind of excitement filled the air. Posters announcing the Meilun Middle School Art Festival were taped to every classroom door, their bright reds and blues fluttering in the hallway breeze.

Mike had heard about the festival before — a day when students could display paintings, photography, music, crafts, and even short films — but this year, it felt different. For the first time since he’d transferred, he had something worth sharing.

His sketchbook lay open on his desk, the pencil lines of Meilun Creek after the flood still fresh. The drawing wasn’t just scenery; it was the memory of muddy currents, snapped branches, and the way sunlight pierced through the chaos. On impulse, he had added the lighthouse in the distance, its beam cutting through heavy clouds. That lighthouse had not been there in real life — it was something he’d borrowed from a photograph pinned to the art room wall — but somehow it fit, like a guardian watching over the town.

“Mike, you’re submitting that?” Mr. Ren, the art teacher, leaned over his shoulder.

Mike hesitated. “I was thinking about it.”

“You should. It has… weight.” Mr. Ren smiled, as if he knew exactly what Mike was afraid to admit: that the drawing meant more than just lines on paper.

The festival day arrived with sunlight so bright it turned the school courtyard into a stage. White tents lined the path to the gym, each one filled with displays. Mike’s drawing, framed in simple black, hung in the center of the art section. Below it, a caption read: Meilun Creek, After the Storm — by Mike Lee.

Students drifted past, some pausing to look. He caught fragments of their whispers —

“Hey, this is really good.”

“Who’s Mike Lee?”

“New guy, right?”

Even Ms. Qiu, the usually reserved vice principal, stopped to study it. “You captured the weight of the water,” she said quietly before moving on.

But not everyone looked pleased. Huaming stood near the edge of the display, arms folded. His eyes didn’t leave the drawing, and when he finally approached, his voice was flat. “You know… I’ve been painting Meilun Creek for years. And you, just… show up with this.”

Mike’s stomach tightened. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Trying to what? Outdo me?”

Huaming’s words weren’t loud, but sharp enough to sting.

For a moment, Mike considered walking away. But then he remembered the lighthouse in his picture — the thing that hadn’t been there, yet belonged — and he spoke. “Maybe it’s not about outdoing. Maybe it’s just about… seeing it differently.”

Huaming stared at him, then at the drawing again. A corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but no longer a glare. “You put a lighthouse there. There’s no lighthouse.”

“I know,” Mike said. “But I wanted one.”

The tension eased, if only slightly. Later that afternoon, Mike found Huaming sketching in the courtyard. Without looking up, Huaming muttered, “Next time, we should both paint it. See what happens.”

Mike grinned. “Deal.”

As the festival wound down, he stood near the gym doors, watching students pack away their projects. The smell of grilled squid from the food stalls drifted across the courtyard. Somewhere, music from the band stage faded into the hum of conversation.

He realized something then — the kind of realization that doesn’t hit all at once, but settles quietly until you can’t ignore it. He wasn’t just the new guy anymore. His drawing had found a place on the school’s wall, but more importantly, he had found a place here, among these people, in this town.

Before leaving, he took one last look at his drawing. The lighthouse’s beam stretched far into the dark water, as if pointing the way toward something still unseen.

And deep down, Mike felt ready to follow it.

= = =

Chapter 8 – The Last Bell

The first light of dawn spilled softly over Meilun Creek, painting the ripples gold and rose. Mike stood quietly on the narrow path beside the water, the cool morning air filling his lungs. The world felt still, like it was holding its breath — just before the bell rings.

Today was the last day before the graduation exams, a milestone he had thought about for months with a mix of dread and determination. But here, at this early hour, all the noise of exams, teachers, and expectations faded into the gentle song of the creek’s water and the distant whisper of waves meeting the Pacific.

He glanced up the creek toward Meilun Mountain, where the winding trail disappeared among the tall trees. Beyond, the harbor stretched out, its familiar light tower standing sentinel against the awakening sky. The lighthouse’s beam had not yet started its nightly sweep, but Mike imagined it silently waiting, ready to guide others through their own dark and uncertain waters.

It struck him then how much had changed in this one year since he first arrived here, hesitant and unsure, carrying the weight of so many moves in his backpack. Each place he had lived — from southern Taiwan to Taipei, and now Hualien — was like a layer of sediment beneath the surface of who he had become. The creek, the mountain, the ocean — they were all threads woven into the fabric of his story.

A soft crunch on the gravel behind him made Mike turn. Emma and Ryo appeared, carrying their backpacks but moving quietly so as not to disturb the peaceful morning. Emma smiled warmly. “I thought you might be here.”

Ryo nodded, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Too many thoughts.”

They stood together, watching as a flock of egrets lifted from the reeds, soaring in a lazy arc over the water.

Emma broke the silence. “It’s strange — knowing everything might change after tomorrow.”

Mike exhaled slowly. “It is. But maybe change is just part of the story. Like the creek after a flood, the landscape shifts, but it’s still the same water flowing.”

Ryo grinned. “Yeah, and maybe we’re all just finding our own currents.”

Their conversation drifted into quiet companionship, comfortable and unforced. After weeks of late-night study sessions, group projects, and shared frustrations, this was a different kind of connection — one anchored by shared experience and hope.

As the sun climbed higher, Mike felt a peace he hadn’t known in a long time. He thought about the festival, the late afternoons by the harbor, the cliffs, and the waves. Most of all, he thought about the people who had welcomed him — not just as the new kid, but as someone who belonged.

A distant bell rang somewhere in the town, clear and steady, a reminder of time moving forward. Mike smiled to himself, understanding at last what “Before the Bell Rings” really meant. It was the quiet moments before change, the space to reflect and gather strength before stepping into the unknown.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the creek bathed in early light. One last image to carry forward.

“Ready to face tomorrow?” Emma asked softly.

Mike nodded. “More than ever.”

Together, they turned away from the water and walked back toward the school, their footsteps light on the path. Behind them, the creek continued its journey to the sea, the lighthouse in the distance standing tall — a steady glow in the coming dawn.

~ ~ ~

The bell finally rang, its clear tone echoing across the campus like a farewell and a beginning all at once. Mike stood outside the school gates, the afternoon sun warming his face as students and teachers mingled, exchanged goodbyes, and made plans to meet again.

He spotted Emma and Ryo nearby, their faces bright with relief and quiet excitement. They waved him over, and for a moment, the three friends simply stood together, sharing smiles that spoke of unspoken promises.

“See you at the reunion,” Emma said, nudging Mike playfully.

“Definitely,” Ryo added, “And maybe sooner.”

Mike nodded, feeling the truth in their words. The future still held its mysteries, but no longer did it seem overwhelming. Every step he had taken — every school, every town, every challenge — had shaped him and brought him here, to this place where he had found friendship, acceptance, and himself.

As he walked away, Mike glanced once more toward Meilun Creek, now sparkling in the afternoon light. In the distance, the lighthouse stood steady against the fading sky, its light unseen but surely ready to shine when night fell.

The ocean’s waves whispered a familiar song — constant, patient, and full of promise.

Before the bell rings again, Mike knew he would carry that song with him — a quiet guide for whatever journey lay ahead.

The End (of Before the Bell Rings) 🐟🍒🍃

= = =

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Before the Bell Rings (Chapters 3~5)

#2025-0812

Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter 3 – The Mountain Path

Saturday morning broke clear and bright, the rain-washed air cool enough to feel like early spring. Mike slung his backpack over one shoulder and headed toward Meilun Mountain. Emma had invited him along with a few classmates for a short hike — “It’s not big, but the path is nice,” she’d promised.

They met at the trailhead, where the road curved away from the harbor. From here, the sea lay in the distance, glittering under the sun, and above them the mountain rose in green folds. Ryo was already there, leaning against a lamppost, earbuds dangling from his pocket.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Ryo said.

Mike smiled faintly. “I was curious.”

The trail began with a slow incline, shaded by camphor and banyan trees whose roots twisted across the path. Birds called from somewhere high above, their notes mingling with the faint hum of cicadas. The group walked in pairs, their footsteps muffled by fallen leaves.

About ten minutes in, they reached a curve where the trees opened to a view of the harbor. From this height, the lighthouse looked like a toy, its red-and-white stripes bright against the blue. Emma stopped to take a photo with her phone.

“Feels like we’re already far away from the town,” she said.

Mike nodded, though he kept his eyes on the lighthouse. Even from here, it seemed to stand watch — a small, steadfast figure in the vastness of the sea.

The trail wound higher, the air cooling in the shade. Soon they arrived at a wide stone staircase leading up to a torii-like gate painted in muted vermilion. Beyond it, the shrine stood quiet among the trees. A pair of stone lions guarded its entrance, their surfaces weathered but proud.

“This is the Hualien Martyrs’ Shrine,” Emma explained softly. “It’s for soldiers who died for the country. My grandfather used to bring me here.”

Mike followed her inside the courtyard. The air felt still, as if sound itself had slowed. On the far side, an altar stood with fresh flowers and incense. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered.

He approached the rail and looked out. From here, the whole sweep of the Pacific stretched to the horizon, the waves rolling in slow, steady lines. Something about the height — the openness — made his chest feel lighter.

Ryo stepped up beside him. “You know, the view from here makes our school problems look kind of small.”

Mike gave a short laugh. “Maybe they are, compared to this.”

Ryo shrugged. “Still feels big when you’re in it, though.”

Emma joined them, her voice quiet. “Grandpa used to say the shrine was built high so people would have to climb — to remember that anything worth honoring takes effort to reach.”

They stood together for a while, the silence companionable. For Mike, it was the first time since arriving in Hualien that he felt part of something shared, even if it was just a view and a moment of quiet.

On the way down, the group scattered into smaller knots. Mike found himself walking with Ryo, who kicked at a fallen twig.

“So… you still think I’m just ‘the newcomer’?” Mike asked, half-teasing.

Ryo smirked. “Maybe. But at least you can keep up on the trail.” After a pause, he added, “By the way, thanks for the English tips last week. Didn’t fail the vocab quiz.”

“That’s something,” Mike said.

Back at the base of the mountain, the air felt warmer, the sounds of traffic filtering in again. Emma pointed to a small stand selling iced lemon tea and suggested they all stop for drinks. They sat on a low wall, cups in hand, laughing about Brother Strong’s exaggerated tales of his basketball “victories.”

When Mike finally headed home, the sun was sinking behind him, casting a warm glow over the sea to the east. He crossed the bridge over Meilun Creek, its water shimmering gold in the late light. The climb, the shrine, the view of the ocean — they stayed with him, not as snapshots, but as a feeling: that there was value in slowing down, in looking from a higher place.

That night, he pulled out his sketchbook. This time, he didn’t draw the creek or the lighthouse. He drew the shrine’s stone lions, their faces calm yet fierce, standing guard under the tall trees. When he was done, he realized the expression he’d given them was not unlike the one he hoped to carry himself — steady, watchful, ready.

= = =

Chapter 4 – Chemistry and Chaos

The science lab smelled faintly of alcohol burners and chalk dust. Rows of glass beakers gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and Mike eyed them warily. Back home, his experience with experiments barely extended beyond measuring cups in the kitchen. Now, Mr. Zhao was speaking rapidly in Mandarin about “molar solutions” and “reaction rates,” words swirling around Mike like a fast-moving stream he couldn’t quite catch.

Mike caught fragments — “measure carefully,” “don’t mix too fast” — but much of it slipped away in the fog of unfamiliar sounds. Two tables away, Huaming gave a satisfied little smirk as Mike hesitated over a graduated cylinder, his fingers trembling slightly.

Ryo leaned over from the next bench and whispered in English, “Slow. If you pour too quick—”

Before Mike could steady his hand, the beaker hissed and a cloud of white smoke puffed up like a genie escaping a lamp. The class burst into laughter, some students nudging each other and pointing.

Mr. Zhao hurried over, waving the smoke away with a tired sigh. “Li Mai Ke!” he said, using Mike’s Chinese name. “Careful!”

Mike’s cheeks burned. “Sorry,” he muttered, switching back to English, aware most of the class understood the apology even if he didn’t quite follow the Mandarin.

When the lesson ended, the students filed out quickly, but Ryo lingered behind. “You need help,” he said matter-of-factly. “Science isn’t… your strong point.”

Mike gave a dry laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I can help you,” Ryo continued. “But you help me with English. We both pass.”

It was a fair deal. The next day, they started their first “swap session” — fifteen minutes of science terms, fifteen minutes of English conversation. Ryo patiently sketched diagrams on scrap paper, explaining concepts slowly. Mike drilled him on irregular verbs and pronunciation. The arrangement worked better than Mike expected.

Later that week, in art class, Mike was sketching for the group poster competition. His design was bold and colorful, capturing the creek’s winding banks with its reeds and stones after the flood. Several classmates gathered to admire his work.

From across the room, Huaming’s voice rang out sharply in Mandarin, “Not bad… for someone who can’t even measure water.”

A few students chuckled. Mike caught the tone even without understanding every word. He smiled politely and kept drawing, but inside, a small ember of annoyance glowed. Huaming’s jabs were becoming sharper, like ripples spreading across still water.

During break, Ryo glanced between Mike and Huaming. “He thinks you… show off,” he said quietly. “You’re good at art, but maybe… too good for him.”

Mike frowned. “Too good? That’s not a crime.”

“Not a crime,” Ryo agreed, “but in class… people notice. He likes to be noticed.”

That afternoon, as Mike walked home along the creek’s edge, the late summer water lay low and clear, revealing smooth stones beneath the surface. A small paper boat, folded hastily from a scrap of notebook paper, floated by, drifting slowly toward the old bridge.

For some reason, it made Mike think of the upcoming school trip — a trip Ryo had hinted was full of surprises.

Mike wasn’t sure what to expect yet, but as the boat bobbed gently downstream, he felt the first flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to find his place.

= = =

Chapter 5 – Harbor Light

The next Saturday, the art teacher announced an outdoor photography assignment: “Find something that represents ‘direction’ to you. Capture it in one frame.”

Some students groaned at having homework over the weekend, but Mike felt a flicker of interest. That bend in the creek had stayed in his mind all week. And past that bend lay the harbor.

By late afternoon, he was pedaling his bike toward the sea. The road dipped and curved, the air shifting from the dry warmth of town to the cooler scent of salt. He parked near the breakwater and walked the rest of the way, his camera hanging from a strap around his neck.

Hualien Harbor spread wide before him. Fishing boats bobbed in the shallows, ropes creaking against wooden posts. Farther out, a line of concrete tetrapods broke the waves, and beyond them, the lighthouse stood on its narrow spit of land, white against the darkening sky.

It wasn’t fully night yet — the kind of hour when the world seemed to hold its breath between day and darkness. Then, without warning, the lighthouse’s lamp blinked to life. A steady, turning beam swept the horizon, casting its light over the water.

Mike lifted his camera, framing the shot carefully. The glow of the lamp against the deepening blue, the faint silhouette of a fishing boat heading in — it all fit. He pressed the shutter and heard the soft click.

“Nice view, huh?” a voice said behind him.

Mike turned to see Brother Strong. He wore a light jacket, hands in his pockets. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Mike said.

“Same. My uncle’s boat just got in. Thought I’d help with the nets,” Strong replied, nodding toward the harbor.

They stood side by side for a moment, watching the beam sweep past again. The light seemed almost alive, patient and unwavering.

“You know,” Strong said quietly, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’m gonna do after graduation. Everyone keeps asking — parents, teachers… even my uncle. I don’t have an answer.”

Mike lowered his camera. “That’s okay, isn’t it? You don’t have to know yet.”

“Yeah, but it feels like everyone else has a map, and I’m just… drifting.” Strong’s gaze stayed on the lighthouse. “I guess I’m hoping I’ll find something that feels like… this. Solid. Clear.”

Mike thought about the creek, the way the water carried ripples away. “Maybe the light’s not the answer,” he said slowly. “Maybe it’s just there so you can keep moving without hitting the rocks.”

Strong smiled faintly. “Guess that means we just have to keep going.”

The sound of gulls carried over the water. A fishing boat’s engine rumbled as it passed between the tetrapods, heading toward the safety of the harbor. The lighthouse’s beam swept across its bow, marking the way.

Mike took one more photo, not just of the lighthouse, but of Strong standing in the glow’s edge. Something about it felt right — like a reminder that guidance could come from many places, even a friend’s steady presence beside you.

As they turned to leave, Mike glanced back once more. The beam was still turning, reaching out into the dark. Somewhere out there, someone would see it and know which way to go.

= = =

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Photos from My Second Hometown

#2025-0811B

Just a few minutes ago, the three of us—James, Jean, and I (Jerry)—returned from an evening walk along Meilun Creek (in Hualien). We had wandered there for about an hour, not only for the sake of exercise, but also to greet the moon.

Tonight, the moon shone so brightly that the path beside the creek lay clear before our eyes. One moon outshone all the roadside lamps—those short lampposts humbled by the silver lantern high above. The higher the light, the farther its blessing reached.

That moonlight stirred something in me, a quiet homesickness. Back at our place near Meilun Creek, I opened a folder on my computer and found photos of my second hometown, Wufeng. I thought I would share them here, to let their familiar scenes stand beside the night beauty of Hualien City.

= = =

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Before the Bell Rings (Chapters 1~2)

#2025-0811A

Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter 1 – The New Arrival

The morning air in Hualien felt different from Taipei — cleaner, cooler, touched with the faint smell of salt drifting from the Pacific. Mike adjusted the strap of his schoolbag as he crossed the small bridge over Meilun Creek, the water below glinting in the early light. It was the first day at his new school, and every step seemed louder than it should, as if the whole town could hear a newcomer walking through.

He glanced to his left, where the creek curved gently toward the sea. Its banks were covered with short green grass, dotted with reeds swaying in the breeze. He remembered what his father had told him just a few days earlier — that the creek had once been a mess of sand, stones, and driftwood after a typhoon flood. Now it looked peaceful, as if nothing terrible had ever happened.

Maybe people can recover like that too, he thought, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it yet.

Hualien Senior High stood a short walk inland from the creek. The campus was larger than his last school, the buildings painted a pale cream that reflected the morning sun. At the gate, students streamed in, chatting in groups, laughing in ways that told Mike they’d known each other for years. He found himself slowing down, half-wishing he could slip past unseen.

No such luck.

In the front courtyard, a tall man with neatly combed hair and glasses waved him over. “You must be Mike Lee,” the man said, smiling. “I’m Mr. Wu, your homeroom teacher. Welcome to Class 302.”

Mike nodded. “Good morning, sir.”

As they walked toward the classroom building, Mr. Wu asked the usual questions: Where was he from? Why had he transferred so late in the year? Mike explained briefly — his father’s job with the Taiwan Railway Corporation, another transfer, another move.

“Ah, I see,” Mr. Wu said. “Hualien’s a good place to spend your final year. You’ll enjoy it here.”

Final year, Mike thought. He hoped that was true. He’d already been the “new kid” too many times — in Tainan, then Taipei, and now here. Each time meant starting over: new classmates, new teachers, new unwritten rules to figure out.

The classroom door slid open. Conversations quieted, and two dozen faces turned toward him. Mr. Wu spoke cheerfully: “Class, this is Mike Lee. He transferred here from Taipei City. Let’s make him feel welcome.”

Mike gave a small bow. “Hello, everyone.”

His Mandarin carried a faint northern lilt from his Taipei years, mixed with the softer tones of his southern hometown. A few students exchanged glances; someone in the back let out a short laugh. Mike felt his ears warm, but he forced himself to smile.

“You can sit by the window, next to Ryo,” Mr. Wu said.

Ryo was a wiry boy with sharp eyes and hair that fell just above his eyebrows. He gave Mike a nod — not unfriendly, but not exactly inviting either. As Mike slid into his seat, he could hear a whispered comment behind him, followed by muffled chuckles.

The first period was English, which gave Mike a small boost of confidence. The teacher, Ms. Chen, asked the class to read aloud from the textbook. When it was his turn, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. Ms. Chen smiled approvingly. “Very good, Mike.” A few students glanced at him, their expressions shifting — maybe they hadn’t expected the newcomer to be strong in anything.

During the mid-morning break, Emma — a girl with short hair and an easy smile — walked over. “So, you’re from Taipei? Must be different here.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Quieter. And I live near the creek.”

“Oh, Meilun Creek? I used to play there when I was little,” she said. “You should see it after a big rain — the water runs really fast.”

They talked a bit more until Ryo joined them. “Careful,” he said to Emma, smirking. “Newcomers might get lost around here.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the warning.”

Ryo grinned, as if testing how Mike would react. Mike didn’t rise to the bait, and Ryo walked off.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of introductions, class rules, and notebook pages filling with hurried notes. By the final bell, Mike’s head buzzed with names and faces.

Walking home, he took the longer route by Meilun Creek. The late-afternoon sun cast golden light across the grass, and the water reflected the colors of the sky. He stopped on the bridge, leaning on the rail. Somewhere upstream, storms had once sent chaos surging through this place — and yet it had found its way back to calm.

Mike watched a pair of white egrets rise from the reeds and fly toward the sea. He felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little. Maybe this year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

= = =

Chapter 2 – Bridges and Banks

A light drizzle fell the next Saturday morning, soft enough that Mike didn’t bother with an umbrella. The clouds muted the sunlight, giving the world a silvery calm. He zipped his hoodie and set out with his phone, heading toward Meilun Creek.

The creek had been on his mind all week. Something about the way it flowed — steady, unhurried — made him want to see it again, this time without the rush of a school morning.

At the footbridge, he paused. Droplets made tiny ripples in the water’s surface. The reeds swayed gently, their green stalks topped with pale feathery plumes. On the far bank, an old man in a raincoat was fishing, his rod angled like a quiet question to the river.

Mike took out his phone and snapped a few photos. He framed one so the bridge rail cut across the lower third, the water and reeds filling the rest. It wasn’t perfect — the drizzle fogged the lens — but he liked how the muted colors felt almost like a memory.

A voice came from behind him. “Trying to catch a big fish with that camera?”

Mike turned. It was Brother Strong, the broad-shouldered boy from his class, carrying a basketball under one arm.

“No fish,” Mike said, smiling a little. “Just… the creek.”

Brother Strong leaned over the rail. “You know this place flooded bad, a few years back? Typhoon came, and the whole bank was buried in sand and rocks. Driftwood everywhere. People thought it’d take forever to fix.”

“I heard,” Mike said. “Doesn’t look like that now.”

“That’s ’cause people worked like crazy. Cleaned it up, replanted the grass. Nature did the rest. Now look at it — better than before.” Brother Strong bounced his basketball once on the bridge. “Guess it’s like when you get knocked down. You stand up again, right?”

Mike nodded. The words sat in his mind, quiet but solid.

Brother Strong waved and jogged off toward the sports court, leaving Mike with the soft patter of rain.

He followed the path along the bank, passing a low concrete platform where two kids in yellow rain ponchos were feeding breadcrumbs to ducks. The ducks paddled eagerly, their movements sending rings across the water. Mike crouched and took another photo — a duck mid-splash, droplets frozen in the air.

Further along, he spotted a small wooden bench half-hidden by reeds. It was damp, but he sat anyway, pulling out his sketchbook. Pencil lines formed quickly: the curve of the bank, the slope of the bridge, the tiny figures of the kids and ducks.

Halfway through his sketch, a voice broke in. “That’s good.”

He looked up to see Emma, holding a folded umbrella. She wore a denim jacket over a striped T-shirt, her hair damp at the ends.

“Didn’t know you liked drawing,” she said, sitting beside him.

“I like… capturing things,” Mike said. “Sometimes with photos, sometimes with sketches. Depends on the mood.”

Emma peered at the sketch. “The creek looks… softer than in real life. Like it’s alive, but also resting.”

Mike shrugged. “Maybe that’s how I see it.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain and the low rush of water.

Emma spoke again. “You know, when I was in primary school, the flood happened. I came here after, and it was all mud and branches. I thought it would stay ruined forever. But it didn’t. Guess that’s why I like coming here — it reminds me things can change.”

Mike glanced at the reeds, tall and green against the grey water. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s… kind of hopeful.”

By the time they headed back toward town, the drizzle had eased. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and grass.

That evening, Mike uploaded his best creek photo to his phone’s album and stared at it longer than he meant to. The scene wasn’t dramatic — no sunset, no crashing waves — but it had something else: the quiet strength of a place that had survived a storm.

On Monday morning, he took the same route to school, passing the creek again. The sun was out now, the water bright and lively. Ryo was leaning on the bridge rail, earbuds in.

“You take photos here too?” Mike asked, stopping beside him.

Ryo shrugged. “Just waiting for a friend. You really like this place, huh?”

Mike hesitated. “Yeah. I think… it helps me feel less like a stranger.”

Ryo gave a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Not bad. Maybe you’re starting to sound like a local.”

As Mike walked the rest of the way, he realized the words didn’t sting like they might have a week ago. Instead, they felt almost like an invitation.

= = =

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Before the Bell Rings (Home Page)

#2025-0810

Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

~ ~ or, in a sense, this is...

BEFORE THE BELL RINGS

Written for my grandchildren with love;

this is a quiet story of friendship, change,

and the small moments that shape us.

Table of Contents

1. Chapter One: The New Arrival

2. Chapter Two: Bridges and Banks

3. Chapter Three: The Mountain Path

4. Chapter Four: Chemistry and Chaos

5. Chapter Five: Harbor Light

6. Chapter Six: Waves and Whispers

7. Chapter Seven: The Art Festival

8. Chapter Eight: The Last Bell

= = =

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The Mirror in the Attic (Epilogue)

#2025-0809B

The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Epilogue: The Attic Door

Years later, long after Leo had grown into the kind of person who told stories to others — to children, to friends, to his own grandchildren someday — he returned to the attic of Grandma’s house.

It was quieter now.

The house had passed into his care after Grandma slipped peacefully into sleep one autumn evening, the same day the first chrysanthemums bloomed.

Leo didn’t cry when it happened.

Instead, he made mantou the next morning, just the way she had — soft and slightly sweet — and shared it with neighbors who had loved her too.

Now, standing in the attic, he looked around. Nothing had changed — and yet everything had. The same wooden beams. The same window facing east. The same lantern, though now it sat dark and silent on its hook.

The mirror still hung on the wall.

Leo walked over and touched it.

Its surface, once shimmering, now reflected only himself. Older, wiser. A little more silver in his hair. But still — still the boy was in there. The one who had wandered into a forest. The one who had talked with his younger self.

He smiled.

Then, from behind one of the old chests, something caught his eye.

A drawer.

He hadn’t noticed it before. It was carved into the baseboard, its edges blending into the floor.

He knelt, pried it open gently, and inside, wrapped in faded paper, was a letter.

Written in Grandma’s handwriting.

To the next traveler,

You found the mirror. Perhaps it found you first. That’s how it works.

This attic has always been more than just dust and boxes. It’s a doorway. To memory. To healing. To return.

If you’ve come this far, then you’ve already walked the path I once did. Maybe not the same footsteps — but the same journey. I’m proud of you.

Hold your stories close. Share them when you’re ready. The world needs remembering.

Love always,

Grandma Mei

Leo sat with the letter in his lap, letting the silence wrap around him.

Then he rose, lit the lantern once more, and whispered:

"The door is open."

And in that moment, the attic glowed again — not with magic, but with meaning.

A place where past and present met.

Where mirrors told the truth.

And where every child, no matter how grown, could return — just long enough to remember who they are.

The End (of The Mirror in the Attic) 🪞✨

= = =

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The Mirror in the Attic (Chapter 9)

#2025-0809A

The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter Nine: Return to Meilun

A week after Leo’s final night in the attic, the sky over Hualien broke open with early summer rain. The mango trees behind Grandma’s house swayed in the breeze, scattering their scent through the valley. The mirror now rested wrapped in cloth inside Leo’s backpack, along with the old photo and his journal.

It was time to return to Meilun Village.

The plan had been simple. Grandma would stay behind to rest — the stairs to the mountain paths had grown unfriendly to her knees — and Leo would go alone, with only the address scrawled on the back of a postcard and the memories humming like quiet song in his chest.

The bus dropped him off near the old bridge. From there, he walked.

The rain had softened into mist. Everything looked smaller than he remembered, yet somehow more alive. The path twisted between bamboo groves, and birds sang above as if announcing his return.

He passed the tiny market stall where he and Grandma used to buy sweet potato balls. It had closed long ago, but the faded red paper lantern still hung from the rafters, stubborn in the wind. He paused and imagined Grandma as a young mother, holding his hand, laughing as he pointed to the biggest sweet.

And then he saw it.

The house.

Perched at the bend in the creek, just as she’d described — white walls, tiled roof, and a wooden porch where laundry once danced in the breeze.

It was abandoned.

The front door hung slightly ajar, and vines crept up the side like a green memory trying to reclaim its home.

Leo stepped through the threshold, careful not to disturb the silence.

Inside, dust blanketed the furniture. A small wooden chair sat near the fireplace, and a kettle rusted on the stove. On the wall, crooked and barely clinging to its nail, was a photograph of a child — not him, not Grandma — but someone with the same gentle eyes.

He wandered room to room. Each one was like a shell, hollowed by time, but echoing with stories.

Finally, he reached the back room.

There, under the soft light that fell through the cracked window, stood another mirror.

Not the same one — this one was oval, framed in bamboo, its surface fogged with age. Still, Leo walked to it, unwrapped the silver mirror from his bag, and placed it on the small table in front of the older one.

Two mirrors, facing each other.

Time looking at time.

He sat down cross-legged on the floor and waited. He didn’t expect anything to happen. He just… listened.

The rain returned, tapping softly on the roof.

And then he heard it — not from the mirror, but from his own breath:

"Remember. And carry forward."

The same voice that had echoed through the forest.

The voice of the child.

The voice of the grandmother.

The voice of himself.

He took out his notebook and began to write — not for school, not for a contest — just to capture what shouldn’t be forgotten.

He wrote about the attic.

About the photo.

About walking through the forest of memory.

He wrote about fear, and about wonder.

About how sometimes, the only way to grow is to look backward and forward at once.

When he finished, hours had passed.

The light had changed.

And yet, Leo felt no need to rush.

Before leaving, he took a final look at the two mirrors, gently bowed to the house, and stepped outside.

The path home felt new.

And he felt new within it.

= = =

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The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 7~8)

#2025-0808B

The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter Seven: The World Beneath the Glass

The world beyond the mirror was not quite a dream, nor was it entirely real. It shimmered with a golden softness, as if time had slowed just enough for everything to feel precious. When Leo stepped forward, the air felt thick, like warm honey. The attic was gone. So was the creaking floor, the musty smell of old books, and even the lantern’s glow. In their place was a forest — familiar, yet different.

Tall trees, just like the ones near Meilun Creek, rose around him, their branches shimmering with dew that caught the light like tiny mirrors. The sound of birdsong echoed gently between the trunks, but it wasn’t the kind he knew. It was more musical, almost like whispers.

Leo looked down.

His hands were smaller.

He touched his cheeks — smooth and soft. He was a boy again. Not the boy in the photo, not exactly — but someone close. Someone who remembered what it was like to race the wind without worrying where it might take him.

In the stillness, he heard footsteps.

Turning, he saw someone running toward him — not an adult, but another boy. Shorter, maybe nine or ten years old. As he came closer, Leo felt a jolt in his heart.

It was him.

The younger version of himself. The real one. The one who had laughed with Grandma in the kitchen, who had cried when his father left, who had once hidden under the table during a thunderstorm.

“Hi,” the boy said shyly, brushing a twig from his shirt. “I… I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Leo knelt, his heart thudding.

“I think I’ve been trying to find you,” he whispered. “For a long time.”

The boy smiled. “Are you the one who forgot me?”

Leo didn’t know how to answer.

He reached out and took the boy’s hand.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

And then, together, they walked.

Through the glowing forest, across a bridge made of worn wood and rope, past shadows that whispered old memories. They walked without fear. Sometimes the boy led, tugging Leo toward a hidden pond, or a clearing filled with fireflies. Other times, Leo paused, catching the boy before he tripped, pointing out distant stars through the trees.

It was like walking through his own heart.

Each tree was a memory.

Each rustle of leaves was a moment he’d almost let slip away.

Finally, they reached a quiet hill where a stone bench stood beneath a flowering tree. The bench had two cups of tea resting on it, still warm. Leo and the boy sat down. The sun dipped low behind the trees, casting golden light across the hilltop.

“You don’t have to stay,” the boy said softly. “But I’m glad you came.”

Leo nodded. “I think I needed to see you again. To say I’m sorry.”

The boy looked puzzled. “For what?”

“For forgetting how much you loved this world. For growing up and getting scared. For thinking being brave meant never looking back.”

The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to Leo.

It was the silver mirror.

Smaller now, the size of a compass.

“I think it’s time to go,” the boy said.

“Will I remember this?” Leo asked.

The boy nodded. “If you want to.”

The trees shimmered once more. The sky turned violet. The ground beneath them faded like a watercolor painting soaked in rain.

And then — Leo was alone.

Back in the attic.

The lantern was still lit, flickering gently.

In his hands: the little mirror.

It was warm.

= = =

Chapter Eight: Grandma’s Voice

The next morning, Leo awoke to the smell of ginger tea and toast.

His head was full of color — memories he wasn’t sure were real. The forest, the boy, the gift. The way the mirror had hummed in his hand as if it were alive.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sunlight poured in through the attic window, soft and golden. On the nearby desk sat the mirror — the one from the attic wall — but now it looked slightly different. Its frame was polished. The cracks had softened. And there, along the silver edge, were tiny engravings that hadn’t been there before.

Symbols.

Or were they letters?

He traced a finger across them. They felt warm.

Downstairs, Grandma was humming. A slow, sweet tune — the one she always sang when kneading dough for mantou or folding dumplings at the table.

Leo carried the mirror with him and tiptoed down the wooden stairs. The house felt different, as though it had taken a long breath and let it out.

Grandma stood at the stove, her back to him. When she turned, her smile was just as he remembered — maybe a little softer, a little sadder.

“You slept well?” she asked.

Leo nodded.

“I had a dream,” he said.

“Was it a good one?”

“I think it was… more like a memory.”

She stirred the tea slowly. “Ah. Some memories are shaped like dreams. They visit when we’re ready.”

Leo placed the mirror on the table between them. “Did you ever go through it?”

Grandma looked at it quietly. Then she sat down and poured them both tea.

“When I was a girl,” she said, “I found it in the attic of my mother’s home. Just like you did.”

Leo listened.

“I used to sit in front of it and talk to the girl I used to be. Sometimes, she answered. Sometimes, she didn’t. But I always left feeling… lighter.”

“Did you ever walk through it?”

Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe. Maybe I only dreamed it.”

She took a sip. “But some dreams… they leave footprints.”

Leo looked down at his own hands.

He could still feel the boy’s grip. Still see the forest in his mind.

“Can I keep it?” he asked.

“The mirror?”

He nodded.

Grandma smiled. “It was always meant for you.”

She leaned in closer and touched his cheek.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll never forget who you were — or how far you’ve come.”

Leo held the mirror close. “I won’t.”

And somehow, he meant it.

= = =

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The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 5~6)

#2025-0808A

The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter Five: The Photograph Box

The next day, a cool rain swept through the village.

Fat droplets tapped gently against the windows, turning the garden into a blur of green and gray. Leo curled up in the living room with a wool blanket and a cup of sweet ginger tea Grandma had made. Abei lay beside him, purring softly, as if content to nap away the weather.

But Leo’s mind was elsewhere — still halfway inside the attic.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the locked drawer.

What memory had he hidden? Why had he wanted to forget it?

He reached for his notebook and flipped through the sketches he’d made: the attic’s glowing beams, the mirror’s first shimmer, the drawer labeled Stormy Day with Dad. His pencil hovered for a moment, then moved almost on its own, sketching a small key — delicate, almost fragile, with a star at its handle.

“Maybe,” he whispered to himself, “the key isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you make.”

Later that afternoon, when the rain turned to a drizzle, Leo wandered into Grandma’s storage room downstairs — a dim corner of the house filled with forgotten trunks and fabric-covered boxes. He hadn’t explored it in years.

Under a wooden cabinet, he discovered an old metal tin — rusted around the corners, its label faded.

He lifted the lid.

Inside were dozens of black-and-white photographs, yellowed at the edges. Most had curled corners and fading ink, but they were full of life: Grandma as a teenager in a qipao dress; Grandpa leaning against a bicycle, grinning; his father as a boy, half-smiling and barefoot.

He sorted through them slowly, studying every detail — the background trees, the toys on the ground, the expressions in their eyes.

Then, at the very bottom, he found a photograph that made him sit up straight.

It was himself, about six or seven years old, sitting at a table with a birthday cake in front of him. But he wasn’t smiling.

His parents were in the picture too — his mother clapping, his father leaning forward with a lighter. But Leo could tell that, even in the photo, something was wrong. The distance in his father’s eyes, the way Leo’s own hands gripped the chair — tense, uncertain.

He had no memory of this moment.

None at all.

He flipped the photo over. Written in Grandma’s neat hand were the words: “Leo’s 7th birthday – before everything changed.”

Before everything changed?

The phrase echoed in his chest like a dropped stone.

Leo put the photo back carefully and sat in silence. Rain tapped against the roof again, steady and soft.

Something about that birthday had been buried deep. Perhaps it was the key to the locked drawer. Perhaps it was the drawer.

That night, Leo stood in front of the mirror again.

“I want to go back,” he said aloud. “To remember… even the parts I’ve tried to forget.”

For a moment, the glass stayed still. Then, it began to shimmer like moonlight rippling on water. A warm wind stirred in the attic, though no windows were open. Leo saw his own reflection blink — and then, it wasn’t his face anymore.

It was the younger Leo.

The boy in the birthday photo.

His eyes met Leo’s across the years. He looked scared… but hopeful.

And the mirror answered — not with words, but with a feeling: a deep hum in Leo’s chest, as if the attic itself was saying, Come. You’re ready.

The glass parted like a curtain.

Leo stepped through.

= = =

Chapter Six: The Night of the Wind

The attic welcomed him once more.

This time, however, it was different.

The air was darker, heavier. The golden sunlight had faded into a twilight blue. Shadows stretched longer. The ceiling creaked as if whispering secrets. The memory drawers were still there, but some were now open, their contents glowing faintly.

The locked drawer remained sealed, still humming with quiet energy.

Leo walked past it, deeper into the attic — farther than he’d gone before.

A long corridor of mirrors now extended from the far wall, each one tall and narrow, like doors standing on edge. Each mirror reflected a moment — some clear, others fogged with time.

He stopped in front of one that shimmered at the edges.

The reflection showed the birthday scene again — the same one from the photograph.

Leo hesitated. Then, placing his hand against the glass, he was drawn in.

The attic melted away.

He was in the kitchen of his old home. The table was set with a chocolate cake, some half-used paper streamers, and party plates. His mother bustled about, smiling too widely. His father stood by the window, smoking in silence.

Leo — the seven-year-old version — sat stiffly in a chair, looking at the floor.

“No friends this year?” he heard himself say.

Mother looked at Father. Father looked away.

“Everyone’s busy, sweetie,” she said. “It’s raining. We’ll have fun just the three of us.”

But Leo remembered it now — the truth.

He had invited two classmates. They had said yes. But no one came.

He remembered the embarrassment, the heat in his cheeks, the way he’d stuffed a whole slice of cake in his mouth so no one could see him crying.

And he remembered the argument.

His parents had waited until after the candles were blown out.

“You could’ve helped more,” Mother had snapped.

“You planned it all without asking me,” Father retorted. “Don’t blame me when—”

“—when no one shows up? When he sits there alone?”

Leo remembered the sound of the door slamming. The silence that followed. The weight of guilt settling over his small shoulders, as if it were his fault.

Back in the attic, the vision faded.

Leo knelt in front of the locked drawer.

“I’m ready now,” he whispered.

And this time, the drawer clicked open.

Inside was a crumpled party invitation. Handmade, drawn in crayon. His own handwriting.

Leo touched it gently, and something inside him — something old and tight — unclenched.

He saw it clearly now: the loneliness he had carried for years, hidden beneath smiles and jokes. The belief that maybe he wasn’t worth showing up for. That belief had shaped how he saw himself — but it was never true.

He breathed deeply.

The attic felt warmer.

The mirrors along the corridor shimmered softly. The drawers closed themselves, one by one.

And Leo — older Leo — stood taller.

He wasn’t just visiting memories now. He was healing them.

= = =

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The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 3~4)

#2025-0807C

The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

= = =

Chapter Three: Grandma’s Garden

The attic felt quieter after Leo returned through the mirror. He touched the floor where he had landed and looked back — but the glass now showed only his own reflection again. No glowing sunlight, no paper butterflies. Just him.

Still, something had changed.

His fingers tingled faintly. The scent of the other world clung to his shirt — fresh mint and wild jasmine. He glanced around the attic, half-expecting the younger version of himself to be hiding behind a box, giggling.

But there was only the creak of old beams and the soft meow of Abei, who had finally dared to climb up.

Leo patted the cat. “You wouldn’t believe what I just saw.”

The next morning, sunlight poured in through the kitchen windows as Leo helped Grandma slice bananas and prepare peanut toast. The smell of roasted peanuts and fresh fruit filled the air.

“I’m thinking of visiting the garden today,” Leo said casually. “Maybe draw or... write something.”

Grandma raised an eyebrow. “That’s new. Usually, you’re glued to your phone.”

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Thought I’d try something different this time.”

Outside, the garden looked wilder than he remembered. Not unkempt — just alive. Guava trees leaned gently over the path. Passionfruit vines wrapped around the low wooden fence. And the plum tree, the one Grandpa had planted before Leo was even born, stood tall near the back wall, its branches full of tiny green fruit.

He sat down on the old wooden bench, notebook in hand. For a few minutes, he simply listened.

Bees buzzed lazily among hibiscus flowers. A frog croaked somewhere near the lotus pond. The wind whispered through bamboo leaves, like an old lullaby half-forgotten.

Then Leo heard something else — faint, distant — humming.

A tune he remembered. One Grandma used to sing when he was very young.

He turned toward the house and saw her kneeling by a flowerbed, pulling weeds. Her lips moved with the song.

“Grandma,” he said, walking over. “Can I ask you something? Do you remember a mirror in the attic?”

She paused, her hands brushing soil from her palms. Her expression turned thoughtful.

“A mirror?” she repeated, not in confusion, but with quiet recognition. “Yes… That mirror belonged to my grandmother. It was already old when I was a child.”

“Did you ever… see anything in it?”

She chuckled gently. “Like ghosts or fairies?”

Leo hesitated. “Like another world. Or another version of yourself.”

Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I’ve seen many things in that mirror, Leo. Mostly memories. But once in a while… it shows more than memories. Especially to those who still believe.”

Leo’s heart skipped. “Believe in what?”

“In dreams,” she said softly. “In wonder. In the things you carry inside, even when you stop noticing them.”

She walked back toward the house, but then turned and added, “Be careful, Leo. That mirror doesn’t just show who you are — it helps you remember who you’ve been… and who you might become.”

Leo stood still for a long moment. Then he looked down at the notebook in his hand. On the page, without realizing, he had drawn the attic — both versions of it — in clear detail.

= = =

Chapter Four: The Memory Drawer

That night, the attic beckoned again.

Leo waited until Grandma had gone to bed. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he climbed the stairs, flashlight in hand. Abei trailed behind him, tail twitching with curiosity.

The mirror stood exactly where it had before, unmoving — but no longer just a mirror.

It felt like a door.

Leo touched the glass, and once again, it rippled beneath his fingers. The world shimmered, spun, and folded inward — and in an instant, he found himself back in the glowing attic.

This time, it looked different.

The walls were lined with shelves, each filled with small wooden drawers. Hundreds of them, arranged like a giant library catalog. Some drawers were labeled with names — “Moonlight,” “First Bike Ride,” “Stormy Day with Dad.” Others were marked with single words like “Fear,” “Hope,” “Wonder.”

Leo stepped closer and pulled out a drawer at random. Inside was a small wooden top — painted blue and yellow — the kind he used to spin as a child.

The moment he touched it, a memory burst open in his mind.

He was six years old, sitting on the floor beside Grandpa. They were on the porch, sunlight flickering through the trees. Grandpa showed him how to flick the top just right to make it dance. Leo could feel the warm wood under his fingers, smell the oolong tea in Grandpa’s cup.

The memory was so vivid it brought tears to his eyes.

He closed the drawer carefully and reached for another.

This one held a smooth black stone, shaped like a teardrop.

As he touched it, a sad memory surfaced — the day Abei got lost during a typhoon. Leo had cried into his pillow, certain the cat was gone forever. But the next day, Grandma found Abei hiding under the porch, wet but unharmed. Leo remembered the joy, the relief, and the way he hugged the grumpy cat until they both fell asleep.

Each drawer was a part of him — moments he had lived, loved, or almost forgotten.

But then, he noticed one drawer set apart from the others.

It was locked.

There was no label on it, just a faint engraving of a single mirror.

Leo tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.

He turned and found the younger version of himself watching quietly from a distance.

“What’s in that drawer?” Leo asked.

“That one’s harder,” the younger Leo replied. “It holds a memory you’re not ready to see yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because you locked it away yourself,” the boy said gently. “But one day, you’ll be strong enough to open it.”

Leo nodded slowly. “Is there a key?”

“There’s always a key. Sometimes it just takes time to find it.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Leo asked, “Do you come here often?”

The younger Leo shrugged. “Only when you remember I exist.”

Leo turned to look at the shelves again — a thousand drawers, a thousand stories.

He realized something important: the attic was more than just a place of magic. It was a library of the heart. A place where every moment mattered, even the small ones. Maybe especially the small ones.

When he finally returned through the mirror, Abei was still there, blinking lazily on the windowsill.

Leo whispered, “Do you think cats remember their memories too?”

Abei blinked once, then stretched and trotted away — as if to say, Some things are better left unsaid.

= = =

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