Three days had passed since the "Destiny," and Blackie had remained locked inside her rented apartment, refusing to leave. These past few days, she had spent most of her time sitting motionless on the faded fabric sofa, only heating up some frozen ready meals when she felt hungry — no one knew what she was thinking...
Until the evening, when Blackie was sorting through old things and caught a glimpse of the calendar, suddenly realizing that the next day was the day for new students to report to the academy.
There had been no follow-up to that incident three days ago... at least, she had received no response. Blackie slowly rose from the sofa, stood silently for a moment, then suddenly pulled open the drawer and started packing her luggage.
She had made up her mind — she would go to the train station the next morning to wait for an encounter. When despair swamps the body like a swamp, even the faintest glimmer of light becomes the sun.
Looking at the half-open suitcase, her fingers unconsciously traced the faded little bear sticker on the corner — it was a cartoon pattern cut out from the edge of a mission briefing by her mother.
Memories shattered like thin ice, reflecting the winter evening six years ago. That day, she stood at the door, tightly holding the paper piece with the little bear sticker in her hands, waiting for the figures of her parents who had promised to pick her up. Until dusk fell and snowflakes flew, she had never waited for that promised return.
Years later, a young official in a crisp uniform stood before the orphanage gate, delivering the cruel truth with a cold tone: her parents had lost contact during an external mission.
That night, she sat alone on the orphanage rooftop, watching the distant lights, and no great wave of emotion stirred within her — she simply accepted the truth in silence. Perhaps it was because the memories of childhood were too faint, or perhaps time had already quietly dulled that pain.
She did not feel the unbearable grief, only a faint sense of bitterness in her heart when she occasionally saw moments of family warmth elsewhere, like ripples spreading out.
Over the years, she had also run around searching for her parents' whereabouts, but after repeated failures, the last spark of hope in her heart had finally been extinguished. The weight of life had pressed her to the point of suffocation, and she no longer had the energy or time to chase after those distant pasts. Thus, she spent her entire adolescence in the orphanage.
While sorting through old things, she accidentally found that class photo, and was shocked to realize that it had become her only memory of student life. In the photo, a group of children from broken families and youth who had grown up on low-income allowances crowded together, like stray cats huddled together in the cold wind.
Below the photo was a yellowed class schedule, printed in faded ink with courses such as "Survival," "Mental Growth," and "Basic Reading and Writing." She still remembered the slats of the life skills classroom and the third row's far right corner, where she always sat in the shadows.
Her pencil case's inner side was covered in crooked tally marks in fluorescent pen — each completed "Emotional Guidance" class added a mark. Now, the fluorescent marks had faded into a sickly green, just like the scar that had long since healed in her heart.
Sadness never fully disappears. It turns into calcium, settling in the bones, subtly influencing the soul. When the cafeteria distributed fruits, she always quietly took the smallest apple; when taking group photos, she always stood on the far right, as if about to retreat into the shadows. Even during morning runs, she would always take a half-step back when passing the corridor corner, her body always ready to turn sideways in a defensive posture.
[Want to destroy a person? Just destroy their childhood — the rest will follow naturally]
During the week of her 14th birthday, she carried a worn-out canvas bag and stepped out of the orphanage's iron gate. A girl without magic or any special skills could only survive by working odd jobs in the old town — eventually, she found a night shift as a convenience store cashier, and also found a rented apartment in the old neighborhood across the street.
Her roommate was a lady in her early thirties, a woman who often smudged her eyeliner into dark circles. She would point at the moldy corner of the wall while hanging up her bras and say: "This broken house — even lizards can't survive the rainy season."
Her roommate often worked late shifts, but before leaving for overtime, she would always leave a few meal boxes in the fridge for Blackie, each with a note attached in cartoon font writing things like "Eat more when you're growing," or "Wear light-colored hoodies in spring — your eyes suit mint green."
Looking back on these years, she was not completely untouched by genuine affection... it was these scattered moments of warmth that had supported her through those dark times. Thinking of this, Blackie reached into her pencil case and pulled out a pen. She gently twisted the cap open and wrote on the slightly yellowed sticky note: "If I were to turn into stardust, please fold a willow branch and forget."
For her, the ritual of farewell was like trying to catch sand — the creases on the sticky note were her final act of tenderness, hoping her roommate would no longer worry about her. The edges of the note were slightly curled, like a paper boat ready to set sail.
The moonlight filtering through the rental curtains measured the angle of memory, and as her fingers traced it, her gaze fell upon an envelope — a yellowish brown leather envelope with a faded and curled seal, the back of it slightly stained with pink ink, the same one the orphanage teacher had thrust into her palm without a word when saying goodbye.
She had never known how to place memories, or how to reconcile with the past. Like now, it seemed that as long as she did not unfold that crease, the little girl with braids would forever remain inside the envelope, smiling at her.
Blackie suddenly stopped her movement and stared blankly at the darkening sky outside.
"Only this time... it might really be goodbye..."
As she murmured these words, Blackie carefully opened the yellowed envelope. Inside, there was a yellowed graduation photo — on the back, the principal had written neatly in small characters: "Spring will always come."
Her fingers trembled slightly — it turned out that saying goodbye was not always sad...
Moonlight spilled over the yellowed seal, and the old glue stains shimmered with a pale yellow glow, blending with the tear droplets hanging at the corner of the girl's eyes.
[Reconcile with time, and let the wind of freedom blow even farther]
Blackie silently packed her belongings, looking at the room she had lived in for four years — for a moment, she felt a pang of reluctance. "If the academy doesn't accept me tomorrow, I might have to come back and live here for a few more years," she suddenly smiled wryly, the corners of her mouth tinged with unrelenting melancholy.
She reached up and lightly touched the cat-ear pendant on her right ear — the silver cat-ear pendant shimmered with a blue light, and a blue pentagram rotated and spread out on the floor. That cat-ear pendant was, in fact, a portable storage device.
The pentagram was suddenly folded and compressed by an invisible hand, vanishing instantly at the center of the magic circle.
As the moonlight seeped through the walls, Blackie lay back on the iron bedframe. The rusted metal frame let out a sigh, disturbing the dust that had gathered in the wall cracks. She suddenly raised her left hand, slowly closing her fingers — as if trying to grasp the sands of the Milky Way: "This time... maybe things will be different..."
She did not notice that as she murmured these words, a single sprout of tender green had quietly emerged from the crack in the moldy ceiling corner, responding to the tips of her fingers.
That emerald green sprout hung there in the patchwork of the limey wall, like a single drop of life that had survived from a spilled palette.
[Wildflowers often read the spring much earlier]