There are summer mornings when I find love dwelling in the most unexpected places. Like right outside the third-floor window of an exam room.
Outside the Third-Floor Window
From Moonlight with love
An old father waits while his child sits the exam,
Scorching sun bleaches white his silver hair.
A face that hides what years of weather left behind
Hands calloused, cracked — each line a year of labour.
He fumbles, lost inside this unfamiliar city,
Anxiety curling his whole body small.
By the window, hunched, he copies every rule down —
Afraid his child might miss a single word.
In the empty hallway, he braves the searing heat,
Waiting for his child, sweat drenching his frayed shirt.
Every drop that falls is a brick he lays
For his child’s path, as he quietly fades into the background.
The rule sheet still tucked inside his breast pocket,
He silently counts the tuition for the first year.
The old father waiting by the window,
Wishes only for his own next four years to be even harder.
The Story Behind a Father
It was during the national college entrance exam. I was assigned to the top floor as a proctor assistant. My job was to assist the invigilators, answer their questions, and maintain order. That was why a parent entering the restricted exam area immediately caught my attention.
That day was just the orientation session. Most parents dropped their kids off at the gate and left. But he was one of the two rare parents who made their way all the way up to the third floor, waiting just outside the window.
A moment later, he pulled both his feet up onto the small wooden chair meant for a single person. I had no choice but to walk over and remind him of the rules.
He looked up at me with a gentle smile: “I just wanted to sit closer to hear the exam regulations, so I can remind my child later in case they forget.”
I was a bit surprised: “Didn’t your child come to the orientation today?”
He hesitated: “My child is inside the room, but… I’m just worried.”
I was about to tell him that from this day on, he should let his child be independent, but I stopped myself. Instead, I just asked him to sit properly and helped pull his chair into the shade so he wouldn’t get too exhausted.
When the regulations were being read aloud, he stood outside the window, jotting down every single word from the invigilator like a devoted assistant.
As the session ended, his child stepped out and froze, seeing her father standing right there. The paper with the regulations was still clutched in his hand, and the sweat on his shirt had dried long ago. The young girl rushed over and linked her arm through his. Through the window frame, two silhouettes—one upright, one hunched—gradually walked away.