That Little Girl

Shaanxi Association of Canada

Mr. Han Jianjun

January 24, 2026

It was the Cold Dew season many years ago when seven or eight of us teacher trainees arrived at a middle school on Dizhai Plateau for our practicum, backpacks in tow. Freshly harvested cornfields exposed moist earth, and flocks of sparrows swept across the ridges like grains swept up by the autumn wind, suddenly pausing to peck at the tracks left by the departing combine harvester. The children of the plains carried the untamed spirit of the wilderness. Even as the class bell rang, the classroom remained a cacophony of noise. Deep in my memory, the sole exception was that girl sitting in the front row, her hair in a ponytail, always quietly bent over her books.

By day, we followed the rhythm of the class schedule, sharing classroom moments with our students. Come evening, the dormitory became a haven for intellectual exchange. Sitting in a circle, our fellow interns shared insights and questions sparked by lectures, gradually attempting to draft lesson plans. Time unfolded quietly within this rhythm of teaching and learning, as smooth and unhurried as spring tea unfurling in a cup.

It was a Saturday drenched in morning light, the crisp scent of plants drifting through the window. Suddenly, girls from the neighboring dorm burst in, excitedly gathering around us. They insisted there was a wonderful spot nearby called Whale Creek with breathtaking scenery, and they absolutely had to drag us along. Just as we were about to leave, a girl who had finished hanging laundry shook her hands and whispered, “Why not visit the Children's Village instead?” Seeing our puzzled looks, she added, “It's a village where a group of orphans live.”

Though called a “village,” it was merely a courtyard enclosed by two rows of gray-tiled houses. After gaining permission, we stepped into this world we had never before explored.

The image of six or seven children crammed onto a bunk bed has faded in my memory like a worn film reel, yet the sensation of that crowding still presses against my chest. The sudden visit disturbed the silence. The children frantically gathered their scattered belongings, timid glimmers hidden beneath lowered eyelids—this awkwardness before strangers was only natural for children from the countryside, especially orphans who had tasted life's bitterness too early. Until I pushed open another door and saw the girl who always sat in the front row—her name was Zhang Miao. Unlike her peers, she showed no sign of panic, merely offering a calm smile. Her innocent face held a pair of clear, bright eyes, like a trickling stream or a pool of clear spring water. She greeted us with neither humility nor arrogance, her youthful face radiating a serenity beyond her years, as if nothing could stir or affect her.

Back in the dormitory, everyone fell silent. After a long while, a male classmate broke the heavy atmosphere: “We've seen scenes like this often on TV and in newspapers, but never imagined experiencing it so close up today...”

“Most of the children's clothes don't fit properly...” remarked a female classmate.

“They're truly pitiful!”

Night on the plateau lay as still as a sleeping infant, occasionally punctuated by the tremulous chirping of crickets. Moonlight streamed through the gauze window, draping the old wire bed and blue-brick floor in a delicate veil. The evening breeze carried the scent of wild grass and earth. In a daze, I saw myself twenty years ago, lying on a haystack counting stars, dew dampening my coarse cotton clothes.

The next day, we discussed pooling our money to buy the children some essentials they needed right away—workbooks, ballpoint pens, pencil cases... Several classmates from more affluent urban backgrounds called home to see if they had any suitable clothing or other items, planning to pick them up when they returned home in a few days. The girl with stronger English skills also decided to use evenings and weekends to tutor the children in English...

I tried to gradually get closer to Zhang Miao. This girl was so mature it was heartbreaking. Her everyday clothes were simple and plain yet always washed and pressed spotless. She never needed prompting to study, consistently ranking first in her grade. Every subject teacher praised her highly, and what was even more astonishing was her handwriting—neat and formal, like printed characters. When I visited her dorm, I’d sometimes bring snacks like crispy rice cakes or melon seeds. In return, she’d often bring wild hawthorn berries or sour jujubes on a quiet afternoon. Yet I rarely saw her smile.

As we grew closer, I’d share amusing stories about college life after class, occasionally strumming my guitar and singing impromptu songs. During these moments, I could distinctly sense her yearning and longing for university life. Once, when I asked about her aspirations, her eyelashes fluttered slightly, her fingers unconsciously tugged at her shirt hem, and then she fell silent for a long while.

Time flew by like a white horse passing through a crack. The day our internship ended finally arrived. The bus sat quietly beneath the sycamore trees on the playground. The school had arranged a farewell ceremony, where the principal praised our internship cohort highly in his speech—though part of that praise was undoubtedly due to the care we'd shown these children. The circular corridor of the teaching building was packed with students, leaning against the weathered wooden railings to peer out. An early autumn breeze swept across the playground, carrying the rustling sound of sycamore leaves and blowing a faint, shared melancholy into everyone's hearts. Finally, I spotted that petite, familiar figure jogging toward us. She bowed deeply to us, then walked up to me, slipped a folded letter into my palm, and turned to run away.