The Mystery Artist
When I was seven, in second grade, I became an unwitting messenger of love. My friend had scribbled a two-line confession on a torn scrap of paper, entrusting me to deliver it to a girl in the next row. As our teacher approached, I hurriedly tried to pass the note, but it slipped from my fingers, sailing through the air and landing somewhere in the girl's row.
Later, I pretended to drop my pencil, scanning the floor for the lost declaration of affection. The note had vanished—someone had claimed it. I thought the incident was over, a small childhood drama concluded.
But the next day, I discovered something curious on my wooden desk: a crudely drawn love heart and fluttering eyelashes sketched in colorful chalk—the kind only kept in the teacher's cabin. Each evening I would wipe it clean, and each morning a new drawing would appear. Sometimes it was just hearts, other times small stick figures holding hands.
Days turned into weeks, and the mystery artist continued their silent conversation with me. I found myself looking forward to these daily surprises, wondering who was behind them. Was it the girl the note was meant for? Another classmate who had found the note? Or someone else entirely who had witnessed the whole affair?
The school year eventually ended, and so did the mysterious chalk drawings. I never discovered who had created those sweet, simple messages that brightened my days. Sometimes I wonder if the mystery itself wasn't the most beautiful part of the story—a childhood memory preserved in chalk dust and innocent wonder, never to be solved but always to be cherished.
Later, I pretended to drop my pencil, scanning the floor for the lost declaration of affection. The note had vanished—someone had claimed it. I thought the incident was over, a small childhood drama concluded.
But the next day, I discovered something curious on my wooden desk: a crudely drawn love heart and fluttering eyelashes sketched in colorful chalk—the kind only kept in the teacher's cabin. Each evening I would wipe it clean, and each morning a new drawing would appear. Sometimes it was just hearts, other times small stick figures holding hands.
Days turned into weeks, and the mystery artist continued their silent conversation with me. I found myself looking forward to these daily surprises, wondering who was behind them. Was it the girl the note was meant for? Another classmate who had found the note? Or someone else entirely who had witnessed the whole affair?
The school year eventually ended, and so did the mysterious chalk drawings. I never discovered who had created those sweet, simple messages that brightened my days. Sometimes I wonder if the mystery itself wasn't the most beautiful part of the story—a childhood memory preserved in chalk dust and innocent wonder, never to be solved but always to be cherished.
