Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 510

Old Shanghai, New Shanghai
West Island School, Kim, Min Jun - 13
1
815: The last rays of the Shanghai afternoon sunlight trickled through the cracks between the leaves, leaving the dark
silhouette of a tree upon the dirt. A light breeze weaved its way through the billowing trees and across the roofs of the
buildings of the Yu Garden, finally reaching a man sitting silently on a boulder. His silky pale hands held a book. It was a
short book, containing the teachings of Taoism, a religion many followed in Shanghai. His eyes worked fast, reading character
after character and page after page of Chinese at an alarming rate. Nearing the end of the book and realising the time it was, he
snapped the book shut and walked briskly back outside to head home.
2015: The Shanghai morning sunlight trickled through the shutters, casting stripes of shadows across the room. A man
slumbered in this room, or more specifically, a historian. Ever since he was growing up in Shanghai, his heart had been full to the
brim with a passion for the past and a certain curiosity for his city. He had majored in history in a local university, and had found
a stable job as a professor. His alarm clock suddenly rang, piercing the daytime tranquillity like a bullet through glass. He shot up
and slammed down on his clock, still groggy. He sluggishly clambered out of bed, grabbed his glasses then stretched his joints. He
looked at his calendar then grinned—it was a weekend, so he could do whatever he wanted.
***
1815: The man waded through an ocean of people bustling through the busy streets of Shanghai, determined to reach
home. His wife was a tiger, quite vicious if he was late in the afternoon, and he shuddered at the thought. Usually on his way
home, he would look around at the various stores selling a diverse array of goods, and the ten-metre-high wall that surrounded
the city, and today was no different. Whilst gazing at everything around him, he was suddenly reminded of some very peculiar
dreams he had been having these past few days. These seemed to be snippets of… some other person’s life. However, there some
very odd things inside this life, objects that couldn’t exist for real, like a box with miniature people inside that moved, or some
sort of light which lit instantly. He passed these off once again as ‘just a dream’, but he had to admit, it intrigued him.
2015: The historian decided to use his day off to visit the Yu Garden, a remnant left of the Old City of Shanghai. He
brought only a small backpack housing his sparse necessities and a short book to read whilst there. Although the Garden was
quite crowded for most of the time, he found that being in the Garden helped relax him and clear his mind, and he visited quite
often when he needed some space for thinking. He caught a bus going straight to the Yu Garden, and not feeling like reading his
book, he spent the journey looking out of the windows at the city and thinking. As he gazed upon the numerous buildings, cars,
and people going about their everyday lives, he was suddenly reminded of some very peculiar dreams he had been having these
last few days. These dreams seemed to consist of fragments of… another person’s life, yet it seemed that this person lived many
years before the historian did in Old Shanghai. He could remember the Yu Garden, the exotic smell of the stalls by the streets,
and the wall surrounding the Old City so clearly, and it seemed so real . He chuckled and thought I’ve read up too much on the
Old City, it’s just my brain playing tricks on me.
***
1815: The man reached his house, a simple structure that most commoners such as himself lived in. He opened the door
and went inside, his wife calling ‘Welcome back, dear!’ as he took off his shoes. He gratefully ate his dinner that his wife made
him, and he sighed as he thought of tomorrow, when he would yet again have to go down to port for work. Today was one of his
rare days off, and it had been so relaxing. In preparation for an early start the next day, he went to his bed and made himself
comfortable, reading some more of his book before he slept. The more he read the Taoism doctrines, the more his eyelids felt
heavy, and soon after he gave in to the darkness.
2015: The historian sat on a wooden bench situated in a relatively quiet place in the Yu Garden, soaking in the afternoon
sun and reading his book on Taoism. Trying to read, anyway, as he could not get rid of the nagging feeling about his recent
dreams. They can’t be real, they’re just dreams! The logical part of him argued.
But how could it feel so real? How can you remember everything in such detail? The other side of him replied.
It isn’t possible that it was real!