Countdown by the Lectern

Liu Wenhai, or Teacher Liu, as he was more accustomed to being called, was counting down silently in his heart. Forty-seven days left. In forty-seven days, he could step down from this lectern he had stood behind for over thirty years, clutching the pension—not hefty, but enough for him to retire to the countryside—and tend to the small vegetable garden he had long planned. Sunshine, soil, and the freedom of doing nothing—for an old teacher earning two thousand yuan a month and renting a cramped room on the city's edge, it was practically a preview of paradise.

The city changed too fast; skyscrapers shot up like mushrooms after rain, slicing the sunlight into fragments. Only the old Experimental Middle School building stubbornly retained its grey, dusty appearance from the last century, much like Teacher Liu himself, a bit out of step with the times. His students carried the latest smartphones, discussed internet slang he couldn't understand, sometimes dozed off secretly in class, or looked at his faded blue cotton jacket with eyes mixing respect and distance.

Teacher Liu didn't blame them. He knew he was old, his teaching methods perhaps outdated, unlike the younger teachers who used PPTs and told jokes. But his conscience was clear; every class, every point of knowledge, he cultivated meticulously, like an old farmer tending his crops. Chalk dust whitened his temples, witnessing his thirty-plus years of dedication. A salary of two thousand yuan—even Old Wang, the gatekeeper in his rented complex, found it embarrassingly low—but Teacher Liu never complained. He always felt teaching was a virtuous act; money, much or little, was enough if it covered needs. Besides, in forty-seven days, he could lay down this burden.

That afternoon, sunlight unusually streamed through the window, casting warm patches on the dusty desks. The bell for the last class rang. Teacher Liu, tucking his lesson plan under his arm, was about to stroll out of the classroom amidst the students' chorus of "Goodbye, teacher," as usual, when young Li from the office ran over, panting, "Teacher Liu, the principal wants to see you in his office."

Teacher Liu's heart skipped a beat. The principal rarely summoned him alone. He wasn't the type to cause trouble, nor a key figure bringing honor to the school. He was like the old locust tree in the corner of the schoolyard, obscure but never absent.

The principal's office was bright and clean, a stark contrast to Teacher Liu's small, cold-in-winter, hot-in-summer room. The principal, named Wang, was young and capable, rumored to have connections. He gestured for Teacher Liu to sit, his face wearing a formulaic smile devoid of warmth.

"Teacher Liu," Principal Wang began, his fingers tapping lightly on the smooth desktop, "you're quite the veteran here at our school."

Teacher Liu nodded, nervously rubbing his hands.

"The school, well, it's undergoing reforms recently, aiming to optimize the teaching staff and improve educational quality." Principal Wang paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully. "Based on directives from higher-ups and the school's comprehensive evaluation, we... um... have had to make a rather difficult decision."

Teacher Liu's heart sank. He sensed that the countdown number might reset to zero ahead of schedule.

"The school administration has decided to terminate your employment contract, effective next month," Principal Wang finally uttered the words, his tone as flat as if announcing tomorrow's cafeteria menu.

"What?" Teacher Liu looked up abruptly, his clouded eyes filled with disbelief. "Terminate? Principal Wang, I... I only have forty-seven days until retirement!"

"I know, Teacher Liu, I know." Principal Wang spread his hands, a flicker of annoyance barely concealed on his face. "But regulations are regulations. Your teaching methods, well, they haven't quite kept up with the times, and there has been some feedback from students and parents. Besides, the school needs to give younger people more opportunities."

"Not keeping up with the times?" Teacher Liu's voice trembled slightly. "I've taught my whole life, sent so many children to university... Just because... because there are only forty-seven days left, you're going to..."

"Teacher Liu, please understand," Principal Wang's tone hardened slightly. "This is the organization's decision. Regarding compensation, the school will settle it according to regulations. Your salary for this month, and... some compensation."

Some compensation. Teacher Liu knew what that paltry sum meant. Perhaps a bit more than his monthly salary, but certainly not enough to support the retirement life he envisioned. He could almost see that uncultivated patch of land in the countryside instantly turning barren.

He wanted to argue, to question, to lay out his thirty-plus years of hard work and dedication for this young principal to see. But he opened his mouth and couldn't utter a word. His throat felt blocked by chalk dust, dry and scratchy. He had been cautious his whole life, accustomed to obedience, to surviving carefully within the system's cracks. At the final hurdle, he still didn't know how to fight for himself.

Walking out of the principal's office, the setting sun cast long shadows down the corridor. A few students ran past, laughing, nearly bumping into him. "Hi, Teacher Liu!" they called out, their voices crisp, then vanished like the wind.

Teacher Liu leaned against the wall, walking slowly. He felt like a shattered porcelain vase—looking whole on the outside, but already fragmented within. Thirty-plus years of perseverance, a monthly salary of two thousand yuan, and the anticipation pinned on those last forty-seven days—all proved so fragile before the word "regulations."

Back in his rented room, the lights were off; it was dim and silent. On the table lay a worn-out calendar, the date forty-seven days away circled in red. Now, that red circle seemed like a mark of mockery.

He sat on the creaking old wooden chair, motionless for a long time. Outside the window, the city lights began to twinkle, reflecting countless dreams and disappointments. Teacher Liu picked up his reading glasses from the table, put them on, then took them off again. He suddenly remembered something, something from many years ago.

It was over a decade ago, when the old principal was still in charge. The school was building a new teaching block. During inspection, he accidentally discovered the contractor had cut corners, using thinner steel reinforcing bars. He was fiery back then, ready to report it to the higher authorities. It was the old principal who pulled him aside, persuading him earnestly, "Wenhai, ah, the water's too deep, you can't afford to get involved. I know you mean well, but if this gets out, the project stops, where will the children have classes? The contractor has connections, our school can't handle the fallout either. Just... turn a blind eye. Consider it a favor to me, I'm retiring soon, I don't want to ruin my reputation at the last minute."

The plea and weariness in the old principal's eyes made him choose silence in the end. He consoled himself that the building probably wouldn't collapse, and the most important thing was that the children had a place for classes temporarily. For that silence, the old principal, before retiring, had specially helped him resolve a small issue with his professional title. And he, Liu Wenhai, had continued teaching in this building he knew had hidden dangers, for over a decade, drawing his meager salary, until today.

He had always thought that silence was a necessary compromise for the greater good, perhaps tinged with affection for the old principal. Only now did he understand that that silence might have, from the very beginning, planted an unseen bomb beneath his seemingly stable teaching career. Did the new Principal Wang know something? Or was it simply that an old teacher, accustomed to silence, earning a low wage, and about to retire, was the easiest one to sacrifice in the "optimization" process?

Teacher Liu didn't know the answer, nor did he want to know anymore. He leaned back exhaustedly in the chair, gazing at the artificial prosperity outside the window. The city's lights couldn't penetrate his already icy heart. The countdown was over, bringing not the joy of crossing a finish line, but the weightless sensation of falling into an abyss. He seemed to hear the gears of fate click softly, with cold, precise mockery, as they silently removed him—this cheap, worn-out part, ground down over thirty years—from the vast, intricate machine.

Night deepened. The small room held only the old man's heavy breathing and the perpetual clamor of the city outside. The calendar with the red circle lay quietly on the table, like an unfinished, bitter joke.