Xiao Lin's Secret

The next morning at eleven, A-Jie closed the letter-writing shop and walked over to the noodle stall next door.

A-Zhen was cooking noodles. When she saw A-Jie, she froze for a second.

“Well, that’s rare. You’re eating before noon?”

“I’m in the mood for wonton soup,” A-Jie said, sitting down in front of the stall.

A-Zhen wiped her hands and walked over to him.

“Pork Rong brought you the pork yesterday, right?”

“He did.”

“I told him to.” A-Zhen’s voice couldn’t hide a hint of pride. “That letter was pretty good. I kept it.”

A-Jie gave a small smile. “Glad you liked it.”

“But let me tell you,” A-Zhen said as she dropped noodles into the pot, “that dog’s gotten even more full of himself. Before he’d only bark in the afternoon. Now he yaps twice the moment he sees the mailman in the morning. I’m starting to wonder if he knows someone wrote a letter for him and thinks he’s famous now.”

A-Jie laughed out loud.

Just then, a voice came from the side.

“A-Zhen Jie, you’re talking about A-Fu again?”

Xiao Lin walked over from the other end of the stall, holding a half-eaten bowl of dry noodles.

A-Jie was startled.

He had thought Xiao Lin wouldn’t be at the market today.

“Hey, boss of the letter-writing shop.” Xiao Lin grinned when she saw him. “You’re eating noodles too?”

“Yeah,” A-Jie said. “Wonton soup.”

“You want some chili?” Xiao Lin said. “A-Zhen Jie makes her own—it’s really spicy but super fragrant.”

A-Zhen brought the noodles over. “Don’t push that on him. He doesn’t look like he can handle spicy.”

“Who says?” Xiao Lin said. “I saw a bag of spicy Science Noodles on his desk last time.”

A-Jie blinked.

“…Pork Rong left those.”

“Oh.” Xiao Lin laughed. “So you really can’t handle spicy.”

A-Zhen chuckled from the side.

A-Jie watched Xiao Lin—when she talked, her eyes were bright, her mouth curved up, even her posture was different. In the shop, she always sat upright, hands on her knees, like she was at a job interview. But here, she had one foot hooked on the crossbar of the chair, elbows on the table, and she rolled her eyes when talking to A-Zhen.

It was like two completely different people.

“Xiao Lin, how come you’ve got time to come by today?” A-Zhen asked.

“Nothing much, just wandering around,” Xiao Lin said. “Quit my job anyway, so I’ve got nothing but time.”

“Was it a good idea to quit that job?” A-Zhen said. “Pork Rong told me you were in admin for three years?”

“Yeah,” Xiao Lin said. “By the end I was just counting down the days.”

“So what are you going to do next?”

Xiao Lin paused, took a sip of soup.

“…I want to go abroad.”

“Abroad? Where?”

“Not sure yet,” Xiao Lin said, her tone a little vague. “Just… want to see the world.”

A-Jie’s ears perked up.

That wasn’t what she’d said in the shop. In the shop, she’d said, “I’m going to study abroad—I’ve been accepted, I have enough savings.” Her tone was certain, like she was reporting progress.

But here, she said, “Not sure yet,” “Want to see the world”—the tone was loose, like she was talking about a dream, not a plan.

A-Jie was taken aback. Last time she’d said she was already accepted.

“Abroad sounds good,” A-Zhen said. “When I was young I wanted to go abroad too. Then I got married and that was that.”

“You can still go abroad even if you’re married,” Xiao Lin said.

“Married to Pork Rong—you think he could go abroad?” A-Zhen laughed. “He’s never even taken the high-speed rail.”

A-Jie couldn’t help laughing.

Xiao Lin laughed too, shoulders shaking.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Xiao Lin said.

“We’re on good terms now, so I can say it,” A-Zhen said. “Back when we were fighting, I wouldn’t even say his name.”

A-Jie ate his noodles and listened to them chat.

Xiao Lin and A-Zhen talked about everything—from market gossip to the weather lately, from A-Fu’s barking to the rabbit Xiao Lin had as a kid. Every sentence came naturally, no baggage, no hesitation about “how should I say this.”

She called her old boss “a total idiot,” said her coworkers “act out a palace drama every day,” said her own résumé “reads like an essay contest entry, but really all I did was make calls and pour tea.”

When she said these things, her tone had a self-deprecating edge—not the kind that says “I’m putting myself down so you’ll think I’m humble,” but the kind that says “I know who I am, no point pretending.”

A-Jie ate and listened. Before he knew it, his wonton soup was gone.

“Want more soup?” A-Zhen asked.

“No, thanks.”

A-Jie paid and stood up.

Xiao Lin looked up at him. “Going back?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll come find you in a bit,” she said. “I want to take another look at that letter.”

A-Jie nodded, turned, and walked back to the letter-writing shop.

He sat down in his chair and picked up his fountain pen.

He thought about what Xiao Lin had said at the noodle stall.

“Want to go abroad… not sure yet.” “Quit my job, nothing but time.” “Résumé reads like an essay contest, but really all I did was make calls and pour tea.”

Those words were completely different from what she’d said in the shop.

In the shop, she’d said: “I’ve already been accepted.” “I have enough for the first year’s tuition.” “I want to go out and make my own way.”

Every word was correct, but it sounded like reciting a script.

But the things she said at the noodle stall—those were her real voice: loose, direct, with a bit of cursing, self-mocking, and eye-rolling.

A-Jie opened his notebook to the page on Xiao Lin.

He stared at the three drafts for a while, then crossed them all out.

He picked up his pen and wrote again.

This time, he didn’t use those “I’m fine,” “I can do it,” “I’ll try my best” sentences.

He used the same tone Xiao Lin had used at the noodle stall.

The wind chime rang.

Xiao Lin walked in, still holding her bowl of dry noodles.

“I haven’t finished eating—mind if I sit for a bit?”

She sat down, put the noodles on the table, and kept eating.

A-Jie didn’t speak. He kept writing.

Xiao Lin took a bite, looked up at him.

“What are you writing?”

“Your letter.”

“Didn’t you already write it?”

“That was the old version,” A-Jie said. “This one’s different.”

Xiao Lin put down her chopsticks and wiped her mouth.

“What’s different about it?”

“The tone.”

A-Jie stopped writing, turned the letter paper toward her.

“Read it out loud.”

Xiao Lin looked at the paper, hesitated, then began.

“‘Lin Xinyi:’”

She read her own name, paused, and continued.

“‘You finally fucking quit.’”

She stopped.

Looked up at A-Jie.

“…Did I say that?”

“You said it at the noodle stall today,” A-Jie said. “When you were badmouthing your old boss, that was the exact tone you used.”

Xiao Lin was quiet for a moment, then looked down and kept reading.

“‘You finally fucking quit. That company was a dump. You put up with it for three years—enough.’”

“‘You say you want to go abroad. You make it sound nice—broaden your horizons, gain international perspective. But I know the real reason—you just don’t want to sit in that chair anymore, counting the ceiling tiles every day.’”

Xiao Lin’s voice got softer.

“‘That’s okay. That reason is good enough.’”

“‘You don’t need a great reason to leave a place that isn’t right for you.’”

“‘You just need to know that you don’t belong there.’”

Xiao Lin stopped there.

She didn’t keep reading.

She stared at the paper, eyes reddening.

“…Is this really what I want to say?”

A-Jie didn’t answer.

Xiao Lin looked at the letter again, then laughed—a bitter laugh, but also one of relief.

“I’ll tell you—last time I came to your shop, the version I gave you—I practiced that for a whole week.”

“Practiced?”

“Yeah,” Xiao Lin said. “I stood in front of the mirror at home and rehearsed—‘I’ve been accepted, I have enough for the first year’s tuition, I want to go out and make my own way.’”

She laughed.

“I figured if I said it that way, I’d sound like someone who had a plan.”

“But the truth is, I just quit my job and don’t know what to do next. Going abroad is just a thought—I haven’t even filled out the application.”

She looked at A-Jie.

“Am I a total loser?”

“No,” A-Jie said. “You just don’t want to admit you’re lost.”

Xiao Lin blinked, then laughed.

“…You’re really direct.”

“Learned it from you.”

Xiao Lin laughed out loud, picked up the letter paper, and read it again.

“This letter… can you polish it a bit more for me?”

A-Jie was surprised. “You’re not taking it?”

“Leave it here for now.” Xiao Lin gently placed the paper back on the table and pushed it toward him. “I feel like it’s still missing something, but I can’t put my finger on what. You understand it better than me—can you keep working on it?”

A-Jie looked at the paper, then nodded.

She stood up, took a deep breath.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Xiao Lin walked to the door, then turned back.

“Hey, A-Jie.”

“Yeah?”

“Is that really what I want to say?”

A-Jie was quiet for a moment.

“…I don’t know.”

Xiao Lin looked at him, saying nothing.

“All I know is, those are your words,” A-Jie said. “Whether they’re really what you want to say—only you know that.”

Xiao Lin smiled.

“You’re really good at dodging questions.”

“A letter writer doesn’t need to answer questions,” A-Jie said. “He just needs to write.”

Xiao Lin nodded, pushed open the door.

The wind chime rang once.

She stepped outside, then looked back again.

“A-Jie.”

“Yeah?”

“Next time I come, can I tell you my real story?”

A-Jie looked at her, and gave a small nod.

Xiao Lin smiled, then turned and disappeared into the crowd of the market.

A-Jie sat back down and looked at his fountain pen on the desk.

He remembered the question Xiao Lin had just asked—“Is that really what I want to say?”

He hadn’t answered.

Not because he didn’t know the answer.

But because, all of a sudden, he realized—

He had never asked himself that question.

He picked up his fountain pen and flipped to a blank page in his notebook.

He wanted to write down a single word, but the nib hovered in midair, refusing to fall.

The wind chime hung quietly on the door, silent.

The sounds of the market drifted in from outside—calls, chatter, the clatter of spatulas.

A-Jie stared at the blank page for a long time.

In the end, he didn’t write a thing.

He put his fountain pen back in its holder and closed the notebook.

Outside the window, Xiao Lin’s figure had already vanished into the crowd.