Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 244

The mother watched her son walking away, the train getting farther and farther away from her, and the tears
she had been holding streamed down her face. She sobbed profusely, and she crumbled, completely.
1945, The Bund
It had been thirteen years since Fai left for war. He lost a leg and barely survived. He was able to come back
home. He was coming home! After thirteen years! He was ecstatic, he was so thrilled to see his mother. For the first six
years, they kept contact through letters, however, one day, he stopped receiving letters from his mother.
However, when he stepped foot in Shanghai, he didn’t recognize it. Everywhere seemed different. The bund
looked darker than he remembered, and the sky was greyer than ever.
After a few minutes of staggering, he arrived at the village where he used to live, but he didn’t see his home
anywhere – the hut made of metal, patches and rust sprawled everywhere.
“Where is it?” he murmured, while the fallen leaves on the floor made a rustling noise.
“Have you seen my mother?” he approached a woman in her sixties.
“Are you Fai?” the woman peered at him, her eyes pitiful.
“Yes?” Fai said hesitantly, not sure where this conversation was going.
“Your mother is in heaven, poor you. She died during the Japanese attack in the South Station in August seven
years ago, the woman stated, patting his shoulder sympathetically, “She often went there to see if you were back ever
since you went to war.” And she walked away.
Fai collapsed, falling on his knee, tears running down his face. He took out the handkerchief his mother gave
him before he left, and buried his face into it. It had been so long since he cried, he hadn’t cry when his fellow soldiers
died, he hadn’t cry when he lost his leg, but here he was, on his knee, tearing up like an infant. He saved his country but
not his home.
He stumbled across the village, still sobbing and sniffling. People passing by sent him pitiful glances, seeing a
full-grown man breaking down.
“Mama,” he whispered into the thin air, “Come back.”
***
A few decades later, in front of the Central Plaza in Xintiandi, a newly opened landmark of Shanghai, an aged
man who only had one leg sat on a wooden stool. In his hands was a worn-out rag, and he was mumbling his story to
the thin air.