Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 217

The woman gasped as wind tore through her lungs, ripping through decades-old accretions of ash and
dust and smoke that had settled in her bronchioles. Sunlight broke through the clouds in the east; understanding
dawned in her eyes.
“ Liberty ,” she breathed. Her voice rang clear and true; absently, she noted that his name on her lips
tasted of dried plums and huangjiu . “It’s you, oh, how could I have not–?”
As she stepped out of the sickly lamplight, the telltale signs of fatigue shadowed her with every step and
clung to the lines of her body. Tears welled into her eyes: sweet morning dew.
“I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so sorry, oh, I remember it all now––how could I ever forget? All
that grief, and I carelessly locked it away, oh, Liberty, nobody remembers what happened here–”
Liberty quirked his lips humorlessly and enveloped her in his arms.“Welcome back, Shanghai.”
In the trees, the birds broke into their morning song. Welcome back. Welcome back.