Author: Yan Kit Chan

This story happened more than twenty years ago, so much has happened since then in my life and in the world, I cannot be certain that my memory of the story is completely intact. At any rate, I will try my best to recall all the details. If I have forgotten something, I will try not to use my imagination to fill in the gaps, but no one likes reading a story with gaps, do they?

I studied in a very small school when I was a kid, for most classes, the same group of students would progress all the way from primary 1 to 6. In my class however, someone joined mid way at primary 4. He and I very quickly became the most competitive students on and off school, we were always the first two in our class – he was much more mathematically talented than I was, so he would help me with Maths and I would help him with humanities subjects. As for his name, his initials were the same as the most well-known fried chicken fast food chain, thus he was known as KFC.

I left home to study in the UK midway through secondary school. I went on to study Physics and Philosophy in university, while KFC stayed in Hong Kong and did Maths and statistics. Now I think about this, our choice of subjects said so much about our personality. KFC was a very practical person, always thinking and talking about efficiencies, whereas I have always had a deeper interest in how things work, how life works. While we were playing a game of Go once, he asked me, in the most casual way possible, if my grandmother only had an hour more to live, how much would I accept to terminate her life myself? I said I wouldn’t, not for a hundred thousand, not for a million. He said what if she only had a minute left? What if it was just a random person unknown to me?

I picked up a stone from the bamboo bowl between my index and middle finger, trying to decide where to place it between a few very similar points, that probably wouldn’t make a difference to the game at the level we played. “I wouldn’t” I insisted, “I know what you’re getting at, but I don’t equate lives with material things. A minute of life doesn’t make the slightest difference to an hour of life, and one hour of my own life wouldn’t even make a difference to anything after a hundred years, all I’ll leave behind is a name shared with many people, stored in a book somewhere, if I’m lucky.” 

“So the answer is close to 0?!” KFC said. 

“Where would the money come from anyway? Who would see value in terminating a life a few hours sooner? Just about everyone knows that there’s no value in life, I know you don’t like reading history but you know for sure that you can just about count all the people who have made a difference to the world with these stones.” I changed the topic ever so slightly, grabbing a handful of stones from the bowl.

“Well it depends on what kind of insurance these people have bought I guess.” KFC chuckled.

“Turning it around, would you volunteer to die a little sooner to give someone a donation?” I placed the stone on the board, setting up to sacrifice a small group for a positional advantage.

“Looks like you are trying to!” he pointed at the stone I just placed. “I wouldn’t, what do I have to gain?”

“Just in case somehow you find out how grateful people are to you after death, perhaps you’d get a medal for it from Jesus?” 

“I really don’t think so.” KFC said dismissively.

“Well I’m pretty sure that more people believe that there’s a life after death than there isn’t, is that not good enough proof? They can’t be all making it up right?” I said slightly sarcastically.

“Flat earth!!” my friend protested, slamming a stone on the board. “Let’s try to prove them wrong.”

“Oh yeah? If you die before I do, will you come knock on my window to tell me?” 

“Like this: knock knock, knock” He knocked on the table deliberately and rhythmically. “We need a special pattern, or else you might think it’s someone else.”

We let the conversation run wild, devising a full plan to cover all sorts of scenarios – what if it took time to learn how to physically knock on something with just a soul; what if it’s too crowded since so many people are dead, that it’s impossible to get to the window; What if we forgot each other’s address; In the end, we had a plan, be that a very silly one.

KFC was one of the very few friends I kept in touch with constantly when I was in the UK, we’d play many games over video calls – Backgammon, Go, Reversi – you name it. This went on almost every weekend, even some weekdays. Until his 30th birthday.

It was a Friday evening, I went home after work as usual. I had a call from a good friend in Hong Kong. It was the first time I understood the opposing feelings of what must be true, and what I didn’t want to be true.

I put the phone down, I had dinner, I went about business as usual, as if nothing had happened. For a long time, I couldn’t talk about it, until I went to Hong Kong a month later, when there was a memorial service, when I was asked to share my thoughts, my memories – the memories that would stay static from then on. I met a lot of people at that service, his mum said that she had no idea KFC had so many friends.

I went home that night with a heavy heart, I stood in front of a traffic light, and a bus went past at speed. What would people say about me when I couldn’t hear them any more? Was there anything I would like to say to anyone when they could not hear me any more? 

By the time I got to the block of flats I was staying at with my mum, it was already late evening. There was no one in the lift lobby except the half-awake guard, somehow he did not register that I came into the lobby, but the sound of the bell from the lift arriving woke him up.

He looked into my direction, yawned with his mouth wide open, perhaps he recognised me, perhaps he just did not care who was going up the building, at any rate I disappeared into the mirrored cubical. 

There was a slightly unfamiliar smell when the door eventually opened – a very subtle difference that was enough to trigger me to be wary of my surroundings, but not enough to pause. I walked out of the lift towards the direction of my mum’s apartment, I could hear a couple chatting through the door, someone was playing the piano rather nicely in another flat, indeed, strangely enough, the piano seemed to come from mum’s apartment. I stopped to listen, and soon realised that I was on the wrong floor. I must have gone into the lift that only stopped at odd floors but mum’s apartment was on 32. 

I backtracked to the lift, it had long gone to ferry another person presumably. I dragged my feet to look around for the stairs  as it was just one level to walk up. The flats were laid out in a u-shape, with the lift in the middle of the u with its door opening towards the bottom of the u, and the two long corridors symmetrically running either side and extending behind the lift. I shuffled towards where the sound of the piano was coming from again, as I turned the corner, I was right outside the piano flat. I saw the big black door that led to the stairs at the end of the corridor. 

I was by no means a classical music connoisseur, but I instantly recognised the piece the person was playing – Nocturne no 1, and it was definitely a person playing because at times, they were playing in such a way that sounded as if someone was speaking in my second language to me – deliberate, slow, clear – so I could understand every meaning of each note and phrase. 

I stopped right outside the door of the piano flat, I did not want my footsteps to interrupt the music. The couple who were chatting stopped too, perhaps they were also listening. It was so quiet, so unusually quiet, which made the piano so inescapable. 

That evening, I was very emotionally drained, the melancholic music took whatever was left in me, and filled it with something even more hollow. I did not know whether I was standing or sitting against the wall, or where I was for that matter, I was simply connected with, or a part of the music. 

The piano paused, I heard the person turning a page, I heard him breathe, I heard him studying the scores, I heard him begin to struggle, but he continued, as though he knew that there was an audience. “How could he possibly know!” I thought to myself; Then I figured that he wasn’t playing for me, he was simply trying his best to extend what was left of Chopin, some 200 years on after his physical existence. 

At first, I was grateful that this person in the flat helped to continue Chopin; As he struggled and stuttered, I began to feel that I was less connected with Chopin, but only a very distorted version. At any rate, Chopin was fortunate, 200 years on, his life still lived on, thousands of people can perform his legacy for many more 200 years to come; I was struck by a sense of sadness again – what about KFC? Who is going to remember who he was in 200 years’ time?

I gathered myself, I heard the couple chatting again, I heard the TV from the next door flat, I saw the big black door at the end of the corridor again. 

I pushed open the heavy door, it slammed shut behind me, it made a dull, deep echo around the stairway. I walked up the first flight of stairs, my footsteps echoed behind me as if someone was following me. On the wall directly in front were some graffiti, it was too dark to make out what they said. I turned to my right facing another wall, with more graffiti. My eyes were adjusting to the dark enclosure, so were my ears, so was my mind. I wanted to see what was on the wall, surely the person or people drew and wrote because they wanted someone to read it? 

I took my phone out of my pocket, turned on the torch light, illuminating a colourful jumble of patterns on the wall. I looked closer, I tried to follow one colour at a time, to focus on one stroke at a time, yet no matter how hard I tried, I could not discern any meaning from the wall, as if it was a noisy and crowded restaurant where everyone was raising their voice, competing  to be heard, but every single voice was drowned out by all of the others. 

I wasn’t sure for how long I stayed staring at the graffiti, long enough that I began to be able to see through the layer of dust and filth, and began to see names, shapes, drawings of hearts, sketches of faces, running tears of some lonely neighbours, movies of short-lived  and passionate romance, each and every one of them wanted to leave their mark here in a well-hidden place, yet screaming to be discovered at the same time.

I found a marker pen in my bag, I wanted to write something on the wall, I wanted to write something for KFC, so that there was one more place in this world where there was a trace of him, even if it  was my expression of him, like the person playing Chopin downstairs. I held the marker pen in my hand, I didn’t quite know what to write, I did not know whether it was even the right place to make the mark, for why should his mark be hidden? At any rate, KFC did not leave any manuscript, scores, for me or anyone to follow. 

I finally made it home. I sat on the sofa by the window, mum made some small talk, I didn’t register what she said. It was a very quiet night, the air was still, the TV was not on, the neighbours were either asleep already or they were not at home. I heard a sound on the window, “knock knock”, it sent shivers down my spine. 

I turned to the window, nothing was there, except a moth, standing as still as if it was frozen. I leant closer to the window, I moved my hand closer to the moth, it did not move, I moved closer still, it still did not move, its wings spread out either side of its body. My hand was centimetres away from physically touching it, but I stopped; I did not want to disturb it in case it’d fly away, although it wasn’t looking like it would. I sat watching the moth for a while, it did not move, and I did not want to move. I took this as a sign that it was expecting something from me, and I had to figure out what it was.

The next few days, I met with as many people close to KFC as I could – his friend from university that I did not know before, his mother who was always the one picking up the phone when I called his home, the girl he liked who was also someone I was in love with; I told his university friend how much KFC respected him for his knowledge in playing contract bridge; I told his mum how much he disliked the experimental dumplings she made but KFC could never tell her because she put so much effort into making them; I told SuYi how much KFC and I avoided talking about her. They laughed, they cried, they told me stories I knew before, they shared his secrets with me that I did not want to know.

A week later, I sat by the window at home again, a moth was here again, I practised on a piece of paper what I conjured up to be a representation of KFC’s short life, I threw the first draft away, added more details, threw the second draft away, until I ran out of paper and started drawing and writing over my own drafts, the whole thing began to look just like the graffiti downstairs.

I took a marker pen, went out of the apartment and headed to the stairs down to the 31st floor. The heavy door closed behind me as I walked down the first flight of stairs, I stood in front of the wall, adjusting to the darkness. I squinted, waited, but not a single soul was left on the wall. 

This first story was inspired by a friend at work. The story of the story was that I was looking after some flowers for my friend while she went on holiday, unfortunately they all died on my watch… So I wrote a story instead of buying more flowers. Here we go.

Once upon a time, there was a family of four – mum, dad, Qing and Yu the cat. They lived in a beautiful house, in a beautiful village, surrounded by beautiful flowers in the Summer, and beautiful snowy landscape in Winter.

It was Qing’s birthday, in such a quiet village, birthday was never a big event – not for Qing, not for mum and dad, not even for the elders. Nonetheless, there was always an expectation in the air that something might happen – a surprise in the form of a cake, dad actually remembering the birthday – which invariably made it the most exciting day for Qing in a year. 

The doorbell rang, Qing and Yu raced to the door to see who it was, Yu leapt up to the table facing the door to take up position to watch, while a million things cam to Qing’s mind as to who might be on the other side – could it be the village quire ready to singa happy birthday? Or could it be a gigantic parcel tied in a yellow ribbon? 

 “Happy birthday Qing!” announced auntie Kathy, bending down slightly to hug Qing with one arm,  hiding something behind her with the other. 

“Thank you Auntie Kathy!” Qing replied, wearing a big smile, tilting her head to try to peek behind the visitor. 

“Who is at the door, Qing?” Mum asked while walking down from upstairs. 

“Auntie Kathy is here!” Qing said, turning around walking in a zigzag excitedly to lead auntie Kathy into the lounge, all the while followed by Yu. 

“So Qing, this is for you, I spent this whole morning making it, I hope you like it!” said auntie Kathy, holding in front of  her an array of dazzling colours. 

“What is it?” Yu meowed, he had never seen anything quite like it, carefully walking closer to have a sniff, trying to avoid any attention. 

“Wow this is amazing! How do you make that?” Qing said, touching the soft velvety petals of the flower bouquet with her hands. auntie Kathy became very animated, geisturing, dancing about, reenacting how she picked the flowers and made the bouquet. 

Qing and Yu were so mesmerised by the flower construction that they couldn’t hear a word auntie Kathy said. For Qing, she’d walked past thousands of wild flowers every day on her way to school, but she had never seen such a deliberate, manicured and colourful assembly.

As for Yu, in his 5 years of existence as a house cat, as far as he remembered, no one had ever brought flowers into the house before. He went closer to the bouquet still, sniffing, did not like the smell, nonetheless fascinated by what the visitor brought with her. Suddenly, Yu was struck by a strange thought, “what else is out there that I have not sniffed?”

“Don’t step on it.” Qing gently put her hand between the flowers and Yu, Yu gave her a “I don’t care about this” glance and slowly walked away. 

By evening, there was a collection of presents from various visitors on the dining table – a necklace, various home-made sweets, a big box of fresh cao mei, and of course, the flower bouquet. 

In the following days, Yu was always the first to have a sniff at the flowers in the morning, no one knew of course as it was too early in the morning. Qing would be the second to examine the flowers. Yu could tell that the smell of the flowers was changing fast, and Qing noticed that the colours were also fading, that the flowers were beginning to wilt. 

Yu was having a nap on Qing’s lap one afternoon, when mum and dad came back from groceries. 

“Mummmmm!” Qing cried pretentiously, “How do I keep the flowers alive? They are dying…”

“If they don’t die you wouldn’t know they are alive!” Dad quipped. Qing ignored him.

Mum came closer to the table, the flowers were looking sad. “Let me ask auntie Kathy what to do.” she eventually said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

The next day, mum got up a little earlier than usual, she found Yu sitting on the dining table next to the melancholic flowers, looking out of the window as if longing for something. She stroked him, and nipped outside. 

The next few days, just as Qing was close to giving up on the flowers, she began to see that some colours were coming back, and some of the brittle dry petals were disappearing, replaced with the soft velvet she touched some days ago. 

“Mum the bouquet is getting better now! What did auntie Kathy say we need to do?” Qing enquired, tugging on mum’s top. 

“I’ve told you.” Mum said with a hint of impatience. “If you look after things, they will be healthy.” she continued cryptically.

Yu was the only cat that knew what was happening. In the morning, mum would come back with a fresh flower, carefully replaced the worst flower in the bouquet with it, and day after day, it created the illusion that the bouquet as a whole was becoming healthy, but in fact, all the original flowers were long gone.

The next morning, Yu wanted to wake Qing up early to show her what mum did, as he wanted to tell Qing that the bouquet is not the same bouquet once stood on the table. He tried everything he could – jumping on Qing’s tummy, licked her face, bit her ears, but she just wouldn’t get up. 

Yu went into the lounge, mum was busy changing one of the flowers. The front door was slightly open, Yu felt nervous, he saw an opportunity to dash outside to just have a little look at what is out there, how many more flowers are there outside? 

Yu quietly went out of the door, crept under the bushes around the house, and there he was, overwhelmed by everything in front of him.

Yu was a very smart cat, it did not take him long to adjust to the new world around him. He learnt to swim, made friends, tried new food, saw and heard so many things unimaginable to him before.

Qing eventually got up, as she did, she went to look at the bouquet of flowers first thing in the morning. The bouquet was looking more beautiful than ever, she looked at the flowers so closely her face was almost touching them.

The house was quiet, it was unusually quiet. “Mum!” Qing raised her voice a little, no answer. 

“Yu!” Qing raised her voice a little more, no answer.

Qing looked around the house, looking for clues where everyone might be, as mum would normally be here having breakfast. As she opened the door to see if mum is out in the garden, she heard a voice calling from far away:

“Yu! Yu!” Mum called. 

Eventually, mum came back, exhausted from a combination of the heat from the Sun, the calling, the panicking and worry. Mum explained to Qing what happened that morning, that as she was busy looking after the flowers, Yu dashed out.

It took a good while for Qing to take in what mum just said, that Yu went out on his own for the very first time, that … he might have gotten lost, that perhaps Yu was trying to tell her something this morning when Yu was trying to wake her up. “Did he know he was going to go out? Did he plan it?” Qing thought to herself.

By the evening, dad and a few neighbours joined the searching party, they took some of Yu’s favourite toys, his favourite treats, and the crying Qing to look for him. “Yu! Yu!” they screamed on top of their voice.

A brown muddy thing emerged from a distance in the evening Sun, Qing was the first to spot it, she couldn’t see what it was, but she knew, by almost a spiritual connection, it was Yu. 

Qing ran towards it, the mud ball froze, Qing picked it up, getting mud all over herself. 

“Yuuuu why did you run away?!” Qing was barely able to speak. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Qing held him tightly, perhaps Yu was too tired from all the things he did in the day, perhaps he did not want to go back into the beautiful house yet, Qing’s affection towards him felt to her one direction only. 

Everyone was very tired that evening, Qing gave Yu a wash, and they, Yu included, went to sleep very early. Yu dreamt about the cold water he jumped into, the spider he ate, the friends he made, while Qing had a nightmare about loosing Yu.

The next morning, Qing jumped out of bed and immediately started looking for Yu, eventually discovered that Yu was still sleeping. “Are you okay Yu?” Qing whispered to the cat. 

Yu lied flat on his back, did a big stretch showing his tummy, “why did you wake me up.” he meowed grumpily.

Qing went to check there’s enough food for Yu in his little bowl, while mum was just finishing tending the flowers. As Yu walked into the lounge, the smell of the fresh flower mum replaced reminded him what outside smelled like. He walked around the bouquet on the table, located the freshest one mum added in the morning, and sat down next to it.

“Are you not hungry?” Qing stroked Yu’s head gently. 

“Leave me alone for now.” Yu meowed, stretching flat on the table like a little rug.

It had been almost a full month since Qing’s birthday, whatever auntie Kathy told mum about the magic of keeping flowers fresh really worked, so Qing thought. The bouquet was as beautiful as it had ever been, “are they actually real live flowers?” Qing vaguely recalled what dad said that only things that can die can be alive. She brushed the top of the flower next to Yu with her finger, and a little ant came out which startled Qing a little. 

Yu pounced on the little ant as if it’s a monster, he licked it and the ant disappeared into his mouth. Another ant came out, Yu repeated what he did with such swift and precise movement like an experienced marshall artist.

Qing was taken aback a little, she and Yu grew up together, Yu to her had always been just a smart playful cat, she had never seen him killing anything, not even an ant or a fly. 

The morning gave way to noon, Yu still hadn’t touched his usual food. Mum and Qing were making a quick lunch. As they were chatting and preparing, Yu was watching from behind. As Yu opened a tin of tuna, as quick as a flash, Yu took a big chunk and ran away. 

Qing was flabbergasted, Yu had never taken their food before. “Mum…” she spoke slowly with a great deal of uncertainty. “Could we have found a different cat yesterday? Yu would never do that.”

Yu was sitting in a corner enjoying his catch, while Qing and mum discussed about how they could check that it really was Yu sitting in the corner. Every bit of him looked like Yu, his eyes, his colour, his coat, his tail, the way he meowed, the way he leapt up in the air. 

“Can you call auntie Kathy to see if she has a way to confirm if he is Yu? She’s so smart she can keep the bouquet alive for so long!” Qing pleaded with mum. 

That evening, the doorbell rang, Qing rushed to open the door, Yu sat in the corner, disinterested. 

“Aww Qing, you look a little upset!” auntie Kathy said, hugging her with both arms this time.

They went into the lounge together, auntie Kathy immediately spotted the same bouquet of flowers she brought with her last time on the dining table. As she started to speak, mum interrupted her:

“Oh yes, we looked after this so well, isn’t it beautiful!” mum invited auntie to sit down on the sofa, signalling away from the flowers. “Qing doesn’t know.” she whispered.

Auntie Kathy saw Yu in the corner, she instantly understood why Qing was upset. “Yu!” she called softly, Yu obliged and came sit with auntie Kathy.

Auntie Kathy played with Yu for a bit, she had no doubt that this cat was Yu, at the same time this wasn’t the same Yu as the house cat she knew before. Yu now seemed more reserved, preoccupied with thoughts.

As if to demonstrate the point, Yu went to sit by the window after entertaining auntie Kathy for a short while, cleaning himself.

“Can you bring Yu back like you can save the flowers?” Qing asked. 

“Yu is just as beautiful as he has ever been!” Auntie Kathy replied. “Perhaps you just don’t know how beautiful he now is yet.”

Qing was puzzled. “He has changed so much since he came back.” she said with tears in her eyes.

“Changes can bring out the most beautiful things, but often you can only see how beautiful something is after they are changed.” Auntie Kathy sat back into the sofa.

“Why don’t we let Yu go to do what he wants to do, and stop holding on to the Yu before?” Auntie Kathy continued, pointing at the window Yu was looking out of.

That night, Yu went out and did not come back until early morning. When Qing got up, he told her stories after stories of what he saw and did. Qing had not seen Yu being so happy for a long time. 

At first, Yu disappeared for a night, then a day and a night, then a few days at a time, then weeks without coming back. All the while, mum was still changing one flower at a time every day, the bouquet was looking as beautiful as it had ever been, but instead of sitting on the dining table,it now stood in the obscure corner Yu used to sit.