Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 627

sculpture. The thought that that the very land on which it sat was once teeming with an abundance of real,
living trees was too much to bear.
He walked past it to his usual spot, and carefully lowered the case off his back. He took in the sight of the
New Hong Kong Harbour one last time as he carefully extracted the guitar from its case, stopping for a
while to gaze upon the red brick tiles that were laid centuries ago, undisturbed from times of old - the only
comforting sense of permanence in a country of constant development and change.
Amidst the strange array of bright lights, and even at such a late hour, the streets are graced with the
occasional shuffle of late-night commuters briskly walking to and fro, lest they be seen unproductive, to
nowhere in particular.
He thumbed through his pocket to find his trusty worn pick: its smoothness offering comfort and sanctity.
He slung his guitar over his shoulder and began running his fingers across his rusted strings. It had been years
since he had busked there for cash to get by with. Today, he was far from homeless. All thanks to the heart
of the city that remained the same regardless of its cosmetic changes. This performance would be for old
time's sake.
He sang melodies that he had known his entire life. Melodies of old that blended together, stories of his
growing up. He sang in all the languages he had spoken, sang of all the sights he had been witness to.
It was a strange sight to the odd passer-by’s of New Hong Kong that happened to look up from their
spanking-new mobile phones; an old man and his guitar, singing until he could sing no more.