Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 205

I gazed down upon her as she held her sketchbook close to her chest, looking around at the old city of Shanghai.
She was an artist, a very talented one may I say, and she’s back at my hometown to find inspiration for her new
project. I had always enjoyed observing her as she drew, each and every stroke of that pencil a story itself, and
she made sceneries of landscapes and buildings turned into stories.
Right now she is standing near the walls, which has been dismantled and built again over the years. They still
look the same as old days, but the memories are wiped away.
She is looking at something. I watch as she settles down on the grass and takes out her pencil. I allow myself to
move closer and peek behind her back. I smile.
Laying between the stubbles and grass is a single toy bamboo-dragonfly. It is made of dark oak, and the blades
gleam in the sunlight. It looks just like my very own toy that has been lost in the war.