Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 42

The Story that Belonged to Elisa
Canadian International School of Hong Kong, Zhu, Vitoria - 14
E
lisa shifted her bare feet, tucking them in a more comfortable position on a rock. She had already abandoned
her shoes, setting them neatly beside her. Her sketchpad was resting gently on her legs, pencil hovering above
the empty page. Eraser bits scattered the paper, remainders of Elisa’s previous attempt at capturing the beauty of
the rockeries, weeping willows, and the Bridge of Nine Turnings in the Yu Garden in the morning sunlight. It was a
beautiful day, with a sweeping breeze. Everything in the garden, the stones, trees, and insects, flourished in the genial
sunshine.
Ever since Elisa and her parents had moved to Shanghai four months ago, Elisa had developed a habit of visiting the
Yu Garden every weekend morning. She missed her drawing classes back in Europe, and her parents hadn’t been
able to find a good teacher for her here. Elisa had decided to try to teach herself. Yu Garden, along with the narrows
streets of the Old City, had quickly become her favourite spots, with so many stories passing her by every day. She
tried to capture these stories in her sketches. So far, it hadn’t worked well. She felt she did not belong to these stories,
and the stories did not belong to her.
Sighing, Elisa flipped her book shut and gathered her things. She slipped on her shoes, the soles lightly covered in
mud. Elisa stood up and yawned, stretching her arms over her head. She darted a glance at her parents, who were
waiting patiently by the gazebo, both reading newspapers while exchanging a few words every now and then, and
began to run towards them. Her mother smiled gently when she noticed Elisa approaching them.
“All done, darling?”
Elisa hesitated before nodding. She slipped her hands into her mother’s soft, gloved ones. She could feel the warmth
flowing into her own cold hands.
“Let’s head home, Richard,” Elisa’s mother gestured to her husband, who quickly folded and tucked away the
newspapers inside his long coat. He picked up his briefcase and hurried to their side. As they walked along, Elisa
caught words from her parents’ murmured conversation; they exchanged words like “drugs”, “old city markets”, and
chillingly, “dead”. Shuddering, Elisa turned away and tried to block out all the noise around her. She focused on the
water ripples created as the colourful fish swam beneath the surface.
Elisa pried her eyes away from the pond, her gaze wandering up, settling on a family near the Mid-Lake Pavilion by
the Bridge of Nine Turnings. Elisa squinted, realising that the husband and his wife seemed to be arguing, a little girl
clinging to the woman’s trousers. Elisa turned back to her parents, who had stopped talking in hushed tones. In fact,
they had ceased talking at all. Straining her neck slightly, Elisa looked up at her tall father. His brow was furrowed,
his dark eyebrows angled downwards. His gaze was turned towards the Pavilion. Elisa was annoyed. She had just
opened her mouth to protest, when her mother gasped. The same reaction rippled through the crowd. Her father