Chapter 61 — The Birth of the Modern Camera
It was Wednesday, the day of the finals. Bai Xia had spent the last two days quietly practicing piano at home, careful not to arouse suspicion from her family. The upcoming event was held in a grand stadium, where students from across the city would compete. Chu Sun was bursting with pride; she had dressed Bai Xia specially for the occasion, every detail chosen to reflect her daughter's poise and elegance. Bai Sung, unusually free from work, accompanied them, eager to support her. Bai Xuan, tied down by the company, could not attend, and Bai Yan was out of town. Bai Xin and Bai Yang had school commitments, leaving the three to make the journey.
The car cut through the afternoon light, dust motes dancing like tiny sparks in the golden rays that streamed through the windows. Inside, Bai Xia sat quietly, her mind elsewhere, but the soft glint of anticipation in her eyes betrayed her focus. She had a plan beyond the stage, beyond the competition, but for now, she would blend seamlessly into the world around her.
Upon arrival, the stadium bustled with life. Parents, students, and media personnel filled the grandstands. Cameras clicked, pens scribbled, and reporters murmured into recorders. Chu Sun and Bai Sung took their seats at the front of the parents' section, exchanging pleasantries with other families as the event commenced.
The competition began smoothly. Bai Xia kept her piano performance understated, deliberately downplaying her skill. She received third place for that portion, but in English, her voice rang clear and precise, earning her first place. Whispers of admiration fluttered through the audience — few could believe a single student represented her school so competently in multiple categories.
When it was time for the awards ceremony, her parents were called on stage alongside her, standing with the principal. Bai Xia, dressed in her uniform as usual — crisp white blouse, pleated skirt, and a neatly tied ribbon — let her hair fall naturally over her shoulders, soft and flowing, giving her an air of understated grace that drew attention without effort. Cameras flashed as the moment was captured, first with her family and principal, then alone with the awards that glinted in the stadium lights.
The media swarmed as soon as she descended. Reporters jostled forward, notebooks in hand.
> "Bai Xia, how do you feel representing your school in two categories?"
"Did you expect to win first place in English?"
"Parents, what are your thoughts on your daughter's success?"
"How did Bai Xia manage to balance piano and academics?"
"Can you tell us which piece she performed on the piano?"
"Was this her first time competing at this level?"
"What advice would you give other students aiming for such achievements?"
"Bai Xia, were you nervous today?"
"Parents, how do you think she prepared for this event?"
"Are there future competitions you plan to enter?"
Questions flew fast, the flashes of cameras blending with the energy of the crowd. Chu Sun answered with warmth and pride, while Bai Sung kept a protective but encouraging smile on his face. Bai Xia responded with quiet composure, answering some and letting others pass, her presence commanding without seeming to demand attention.
Finally, after the storm of media questions, photos, and congratulations, the family returned home. Chu Sun placed Bai Xia's awards prominently in the living room, the gleaming trophies and certificates on display for anyone who entered. A silent proclamation of her daughter's talent.
Bai Xia, however, sat by the window, a cup of tea cooling untouched beside her. On the table lay her notebook, filled with faint sketches, half-erased numbers, and equations that only she could decipher. Each stroke held tension, the promise of something extraordinary yet unseen.
The call from the factory came that evening.
> "Miss Bai, the frame you asked for… it's ready," a voice crackled over the line.
> "Good," she replied softly. "I'll be there before dark."
The factory gates were half-open when she arrived. Workers had gathered near the main table, and the foreman stood beside an object draped carefully in a gray cloth. The air smelled faintly of oil and heated metal, the metallic tang mixing with the dusk's cool breeze.
Her boots clicked softly on the concrete as she stepped forward.
> "It wasn't easy," the foreman admitted with a faint laugh. "You asked for an odd shape, but we did our best."
With a flourish, he pulled back the cloth. There it was — the camera body. At first glance, it resembled something from a local photography shop: heavy, metallic, rough-edged. But under the lamp's glow, the clean joints and perfect fit revealed craftsmanship. The lens ring gleamed faintly, the surface catching the light like brushed silver.
Bai Xia reached out, letting her fingers trace the cold metal. It felt solid, real — heavier than she anticipated, but alive with potential. Her lips curved slightly.
> "Perfect," she murmured.
The foreman's eyes narrowed, a mixture of curiosity and doubt flickering.
> "So… what's next? You'll put in the rest of the parts?"
> "Yes," she replied, unhurried. "The real heart of it."
She unzipped her bag and carefully laid out the small soldering iron, screwdriver set, and tiny chips sealed in pouches. To any observer, it looked like delicate but ordinary work.
> "You made all those parts yourself too?" a young worker asked, awe creeping into his voice.
> "Mm," she murmured, her eyes scanning the components. "Old radio pieces, scraps from a broken recorder… nothing fancy. You'd be surprised what can be reused if you look closely."
Satisfied, the workers returned to their own tasks. No one asked further questions, yet they couldn't help stealing glances at her movements. Every solder, every tiny alignment was precise, almost like a painter's brushstroke. She worked for hours, sometimes leaning close to the lamp to check a wire's color, sometimes pausing to blow on a delicate circuit.
When she finished, the camera's interior was unlike anything seen in 1995. Tiny circuits fit neatly under the shell, a miniature sensor rested where film should have gone, and a faint blue light pulsed when she pressed a small button on the side.
> "It works?" the foreman asked hesitantly, stepping closer.
Bai Xia looked through the lens, adjusting the focus slightly, and pressed the shutter. A crisp, alive click resonated, distinct from anything mechanical he had heard before.
She smiled faintly.
> "It sees," she said simply.
No one understood entirely what she meant, but her calm confidence silenced all doubts. She carefully wrapped the camera in soft cloth and placed it back into her bag.
> "Thank you," she said to the foreman. "I'll handle the rest at home. If I need another batch, I'll send a note."
> "You really built something new, didn't you?" he asked, half-joking, half-incredulous.
Bai Xia paused at the doorway, the warm glow of streetlights tracing her silhouette.
> "Maybe," she said, "or maybe I just reminded the world of something it has yet to imagine."
With that, she stepped into the evening, the bag at her side carrying a secret far ahead of its time, leaving the factory workers staring after her, unsure if they had just witnessed history or magic.
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