Before the Bell Rings (Chapters 1~2)

#2025-0811A

Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

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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.

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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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