Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 54

She walked over to the tree and dug out the rosewood case, the figures on the lid were almost undistinguishable.
She opened the lid desperately only to find an envelope lying where Feather should be. Xing tore it open; she blinked
several times as if seeing if she has misread the words. After a while that seemed like a decade, sadness, shock and confusion
assembled themselves on Xing’s face, it had delicate and undefined features that made her seem vulnerable.
Dear Xing,
Sylvia had died…there were troops everywhere in the International Settlement 2 years ago…it caused a lot of
panics, she was killed in the chaos...She had talked about you before, I am aware that you are just as sad as we are. You had
been a good friend of Sylvia. By the way, Sylvia had said that if anything…anything happens to her, she’d like you to have
her favourite quill. However, her mother had insisted that we take this quill back to London. I would bring it back to you
someday if I could.
With Respect and Gratitude
Thomas G. Wood
09.12.1944
*
*
*
Xing had been longing to see Feather again until she passed away in 1998.
When people visit Shanghai now, they’d be amazed at how modern this city has become, the bustling streets; the
flashing lights of shopping malls and nightclubs; they would admire the Oriental Pearl Tower in awe. Not many of them
would go into the Longtangs, the narrow alleyways and interconnected lanes. There used to be lots of them here. In recent
years, some of them are renovated, others have disappeared; the stories of ordinary people there were buried in the
demolished residences.
*
*
*
“Hello.” Yang was shocked to see Estelle standing in front of him as he sat quietly in a café the night after they
met.
“Have you been following me?” Yang scowled at her, looking alarmed.
“Well, there’s something I have to tell you.” Estelle pulled the chair in front of him and sat down, “You are Fan
Xing’s grandson, aren’t you?”
Yang gaped at her, bewildered.
“My grandma was Sylvia Wood’s cousin.” Estelle ignored his astounded face and continued, “Does this name
sound familiar to you? Have you heard of the story?”
“Yes, my father told me, but how did you…”
“The Woods went back to London in despair after Sylvia died and the failure of their business during the war.
The quill Sylvia once treasured ended up in my grandma’s possession as Mrs. Wood passed away. I was very curious about
Shanghai after listening to Sylvia’s experience, so I came with this quill. I’ve been to countless antique shops, you’re the
first one who wanted to reunite the brush and the quill.”
“I’m here to return something.” Estelle said finally, taking out a transparent case from her bag. A quill lay
motionless inside; its feather was embroidered by golden thread, a letter “S” drawn faintly on one side of the feather. “It
belongs here, in Shanghai.”