Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 89

“Morning.”
Cheng Guang’s allowed a tight smile, accepting my greeting. Zhang Wun grinned lazily at my entrance
and took a bite out of his congee, before patting the seat next to him in gesticulation for me to sit. The stiffness
in my shoulders ebbed away slowly. I settled in my seat, and we ate in comfortable silence.
“I’m heading out today, I think we’ll finally make some progress with our business,” he started,
interrupting our tranquil morning meal.
I narrowed my eyes at my elder brother and reprimanded him half-heartedly, “We’re almost
completely out of money because you said exactly that several months ago.”
He cheekily grinned as he released a contagious chuckle, ignoring my remark, “I won’t be out for too
long.”
He patted my shoulder and pulled me into a side hug, chest still vibrating in beguilement.
I narrowed my eyes as Chen Guang tugged on his sleeve timidly, gaining his attention as she stared at
him analytically, “Who are you meeting with?”
He shrugged her arm off, and I hid a small smirk in response, “Someone I met several days ago. They
were interested in a large sum of our antiques, practically our entire store.”
I tittered at his exaggeration, and I gave him a brief once-over, before adjusting his collar and ruffling
his hair in amusement, ignoring Cheng Guang’s stare, “Be back before sunset.”
“Of course, Ma Ma,” he replied sarcastically.
With a subtle roll of his eyes and a smile playing on his lips, he bid me farewell and skipped his way out
of our small house comedically, in an attempt to amuse me. Chen Guang forced a laugh, muttering something
inaudible under her breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Ah, nothing,” she shot a massive grin my way.
3.
As children, Zhang Wun and I used to expertly stow away sweeties we stole from the biscuit tin,
figuring out what would get us caught and what wouldn’t, eventually mastering when we would sneak out of
our rooms and where to hide the sugary treats.
I recalled how Zhang Wun placed the blame on me when we had gotten caught, and winced at the
recollection of my brown bruised palm after a receiving a series of angry blows from my parents soon after a
lecture about stealing. I hadn't minded; I would do anything for him.
I approached the yellowed cupboard in his room, kneeling down beside it. I took a second to evaluate
the peeling paint and short stubby legs, as a nostalgic feeling washed over me, recognising this as a childhood
sentiment. With a small smile, I slid my hands across