Before the Bell Rings (Chapters 3~5)

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Before the Bell Rings

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

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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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