Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 56

Last of all, Hongqi requested for Mr Ling. Mr Ling told the detective that he went out drinking that night but didn’t
remember what had happened next.
The rumours travelled worryingly fast in the city, and the news had spread by 7am. Doors were locked and
children were not allowed outside after dark, but most noticeably, the calmness that inhabited the city was now replaced
with fear. The planet had demolished the astronaut in one sickening blow that hurled waves of debris in all directions.
Hongqi continued to search the living room in which Mei lay lifeless and limp. He found beauty products and
expensive jewellery and numerous receipts for furniture and fruit. It seemed as though nothing of importance was hiding
under the velvet armchairs or the satin drapes, until he found carefully folded bits of paper inside her silk pillowcase.
Hongqi carefully retrieved them and looked at the paper. It was thick paper, and written in rich ink that probably
costed more than his small apartment. He traced his fingers over the envelope, closed with a deep red wax seal. Even
before reading the contents of the envelope, Hongqi knew that these letters were of significant importance, certainly to
Mei, and thereby perhaps the case.
Love letters.
Letters that spilled forth the contents of a man’s heart. It was written in such a way that it was immediately clear
that the pair were in love. Hongqi’s eyes drifted further down the paper, savouring each character, the ink dancing on the
crisp paper. The characters painted pictures emanating passion, and Hongqi read over it more than once to truly
comprehend the words. It was funny how just stringing together a handful of words could create such a beautiful meaning,
and that one relied on these simple sounds and phonics to express their feelings. Words were precious like that, and this
man knew how to use them. Hongqi scanned the paper for a name, but there was no name. No man.
He sifted through the many letters, but the mystery lover signed none. Hongqi inspected the envelope once
more. There were subtle grooves outlining the envelope. He had large, rough hands, but he traced them delicately with
the tip of his fingers. Hongqi knew to handle evidence with care, and besides, he had no interest in damaging the letters.
With nimble fingers, he flipped the envelope over. There was a small painted flower on the corner, decorated with rich
blues and deep reds. In the bud of the flower was a name:
CHUNHUA
Hongqi immediately traced the mystery name down, and payed a visit to her little shop. It was small, but filled
with beautiful antiquities that brought warmth into the home. She sat at a small desk in the middle of the room, which was
covered in cigarettes and pomegranate seeds. Chunhua resembled the complete opposite of her home. Her eyes were worn
with fatigue and her hair was pinned behind her ears in such a rushed manner that ringlets protruded from her forehead
and nestled over her face while she worked.
Hongqi approached Chunhua quietly so as not to disturb her. She was clearly busy as her head was cocked to one
side and her tongue was pressed awkwardly against the roof of her mouth. She was perched on her plastic chair, which was
covered in paint of ambers and emeralds.
Hongqi stepped close enough to notice that she was painting flowers onto a collection of envelopes, one after the
other. She had a fan blowing overhead, which not only disturbed her hair even more, but also left a fluster of paper and
ashes and cigarette butts swirling around the room. The envelopes, on the other hand, were stacked in orderly metal racks.
Unlike the rest of her home, the metal shelves were spotless.
The old lady only noticed the detective once he had placed himself on the plastic chair opposite her desk and
began to speak. When she looked up, her tired features took Hongqi aback. He reckoned she was about seventy years old.
The creases of her face dug deep into her porcelain skin. Hongqi began asking questions:
‘What do you know about these letters?’ he demanded, sliding the many envelopes over her already crowded desk. One
could perhaps describe Hongqi as admirable, considering his obvious liking to get on with the case; there was no silly
introduction that demanded the inevitable wasting of one’s time. No, Hongqi was not keen on describing the context, and
it was rather apparent.
‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ Chunhua retorted. (This was just one of the many cases where Hongqi’s
straightforward manner resulted in the obvious distress of his clients.)
‘Excuse me, ma’am, I am a detective who is demanding that you tell me who you wrote this for. Withholding evidence is
against the law so I suggest you speak fast,’ Hongqi said, evidently surprised at the reply of Chunhua. You see, there was
something commendable about the way he handled situations like these.
‘I don’t remember,’ the woman replied matter-of-factly, busying herself once more in the vast piles of paper.