Shen Shuhuan (GL) · Chat

Rain falls on the neon tubes, sizzling softly from the heat. You have been crouching in this alley for four hours, maybe five—the twenty-first-century smartwatch on your wrist went black long ago, pressing silently against your cold skin like a joke. The autumn night in 1986 Hong Kong is bone-chillingly cold. Rainwater trickles down the rusty external air conditioning unit, pooling into a small black stream in front of your sneakers. Sneakers. A limited-edition pair from the twenty-first century, now covered in mud of unknown origin from this era. You bury your face in your knees, listening to the music from the nightclub at the end of the alley. Cantonese lyrics wrapped in disco beats tremble through the damp air. Just a few hours ago, you were scrolling through your phone in your rented apartment, eating spicy hot pot, and then everything went black— When you opened your eyes, you were in this alley. A couple walking past, holding each other, gave you a bizarre look. The woman had exaggerated permed hair and wore a suit with ridiculously large shoulder pads. "Crazy." (Crazy.) she said. That was five hours ago. Now you've calmed down—so calm you almost want to laugh. Time travel is a story when it happens to someone else, but a disaster when it happens to you. And you, an ordinary corporate slave who couldn't even bring themselves to buy health insurance, actually got hit with something of this scale— Headlights. Two blinding beams of white light pierce the curtain of rain, splashing water hard against your calves. You instinctively shrink back against the wall, but the black sedan has already stopped, blocking the entrance of the alley. The engine idles with a low, steady hum as rain slides off the polished roof. The window of the back seat rolls down. First, a wisp of smoke drifts out, scattered by the rain. Then you see a hand—fingers slender, holding a cigarette, nails painted a very pale dusty rose, glowing with a porcelain-like soft light under the dim yellow streetlamp. The cigarette butt is lightly flicked away, the spark flashing once in the rain before dying out. "Auntie Fang," a nonchalant voice comes from inside the car, speaking in Cantonese, the last syllable lazily drawn out, "look, there really is a stray cat here." (Auntie Fang, look, there really is a stray cat here.) You freeze. The car door opens. The first thing Shen Shuhuan does when she steps out is press down on the beret on her head—leopard print, its wild pattern shining under the streetlamp, the brim pulled very low, almost touching her slightly upturned eyes. Strands of hair fall from beneath the brim, wetly clinging to both sides of her face, making her face look even more small and delicate. Her eyes are almond-shaped, large and deep, the pupils appearing a light brownish-amber in the dimness, like water-soaked amber. Her eyelashes thickly fringe her eyelids, and her prominent under-eye bags give her eyes a touch of childishness amidst her laziness. But that childishness is just an illusion—when she looks over, there is a detached sharpness in her gaze, like someone examining an interesting ornament through a shop window. Rainwater slides down her cheek. Her face is cool and fair, with a delicate porcelain texture, her cheeks flushed with a faint pink from the cold wind. Lip color is a gentle dusty rose, currently parted slightly as she brings a newly lit cigarette to her lips, creating a strange contrast with her lazy and detached demeanor. Her hair is dark greyish-black, long and straight, falling smoothly. Her straight bangs are pressed down by the beret, but a few wet strands of hair cling to her porcelain-white skin. A matching leopard-print turtleneck sweater wraps around her slender neck, the wild pattern clashing with her sweet features—yet somehow looking harmonious. Over it, she wears a glossy black leather jacket, its metal zipper flashing under the neon lights. The sheen of the leather gives her a cool, street-smart vibe. The jacket is open, revealing the outline of the sweater clinging to her body. She looks down at you. You crouch in the corner, soaked through, like a real stray cat. "Do you speak Cantonese?" she asks, this time in slightly accented Mandarin, her pronunciation slow. You nod, then shake your head, and finally say uncertainly, "A... little bit." She raises an eyebrow—the movement is very slight, but as her under-eye bags shift, the expression on her face changes from lazy to a half-smile. "A little bit," she repeats the words, as if savoring something interesting. Then she turns her head and calls out in Cantonese to the car: "Auntie Fang, grab an umbrella, otherwise she'll catch a cold in a bit." (Auntie Fang, grab an umbrella, otherwise she'll catch a cold in a bit.) A helpless female voice responds from the car. She turns back to look at you, the cigarette held between her fingers, the smoke dispersing into thin wisps in the rain. "Get in," she says, her tone as casual as if she were deciding where to have supper tonight. "Bringing a stray cat back, it shouldn't bite, right?" (Picking up a stray cat and taking it back, it shouldn't bite, right?) You open your mouth, wanting to say you're not a stray cat, wanting to say you're from the twenty-first century, wanting to say you just woke up here. But the words catch in your throat, and in the end, they turn into: "I don't have any money." She pauses, then laughs. The smile is brief, just a slight curve of her lips, but the detached sharpness in her eyes softens a little, revealing a hint of almost genuine amusement. "I know," (I know,) she says, "if you had money, you wouldn't be crouching here." (if you had money, you wouldn't be crouching here.) She turns and walks toward the car door, the hem of her leather jacket swinging in a small arc. After a couple of steps, she stops again and turns her head, her hair obscuring half her face, leaving only one eye visible—the slightly upturned corner of her eye looking exceptionally clear through the curtain of rain. "Aren't you getting in?" (Aren't you getting in?) she says, "It'll be even more troublesome if you catch a cold." (It'll be even more troublesome if you catch a cold.) You stand up, your legs already numb, and stumble, almost falling. She doesn't even look, simply bending to sit inside the car, leaving you with the view of her back and her leopard-print beret. The car is warm, so warm that your soaked clothes begin to steam. She sits on the other side, far away from you. The cigarette has been put out at some point, and she is now looking down, playing with a silver lighter. Only in the light do you see that the bridge of her nose is high and delicate, her features clean and sharp, making her profile look even more distinct. A middle-aged woman is driving in the front seat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror, looking as if she wants to say something but hesitates. "Auntie Fang," the young mistress in the back seat says without looking up, "if you want to speak, just speak." (if you want to say something, just say it.) The driver, called Auntie Fang, sighs: "Miss, you'd pick up just anyone and bring them home..." (Miss, you'd pick up just anyone and bring them home...) "I'm bored anyway." (I'm bored anyway.) She opens the lighter's lid and closes it with a click. "Besides, Auntie Fang, aren't you curious? At this time, in this place, this kind of—" (Besides, Auntie Fang, aren't you curious? At this time, in this place, this kind of—) She finally looks up, scanning you from head to toe, her gaze lingering for half a second on your limited-edition twenty-first-century sneakers. "—this kind of person." (—this kind of person.) You instinctively pull your feet back. She doesn't say anything more, but that slight curve of her lips appears again. Outside the car window, the neon lights flash past, and the windshield wipers swing left and right. You hug yourself, trying to find a sense of reality in this unfamiliar body. But the car is filled with a faint scent of perfume, mixed with the dampness of the rain and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. It is all real. "What's your name?" (What's your name?) she suddenly asks. You open your mouth and instinctively say your name. She listens, makes no comment, and simply nods: "From the Mainland." (From the Mainland.) It is not a question, but a statement. You don't deny it. "Wherever you're from," (Wherever you're from,) she puts the lighter in her pocket, leans back against the seat, and closes her eyes, "you'll sleep in the guest room tonight, and tomorrow—" (you'll sleep in the guest room tonight, and tomorrow—) She opens her eyes, that touch of laziness returning to her face, her gaze carrying a half-smile. "Tomorrow you start working to pay off your debt." (Tomorrow you start working to pay off your debt.) You freeze: "What debt?" "Car fare, lodging, hot water, and—" (Car fare, lodging, hot water, and—) She points at your dripping clothes, "you wet my car seats, dry cleaning fees." (you got my car seats wet, dry cleaning fees.) You stare at her. She stares back, a hint of genuine playfulness finally appearing in those almond eyes, like a cat that has stolen a fish. The lights stream past outside the window, flickering in her light brownish-amber pupils. "What," (What,) she says, "unwilling?" (unwilling?) You don't know how to answer. Outside is 1986 Hong Kong; inside is a strange woman wearing a leopard-print beret. You have nothing and nowhere to go, and she has just given you a place to stay—even if it comes with a bizarre "debt." "...I'm willing." you say. She curves her eyes in satisfaction, the smile lasting a bit longer than before, lighting up her entire face. But after just two seconds, she resumes her lazy, detached expression, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes. "Wake me when we arrive." (Wake me when we arrive.) she says. You nod, realize she can't see you, and give a soft "Mm." The car drives on, and the rain continues to fall. You don't know what awaits you, only that the eyelashes of the strange woman beside you are very long, trembling gently in the flickering light of the streetlamps. Like a butterfly's wings. The next morning, you are awakened by the sunlight. An unfamiliar room, an unfamiliar bed, and outside the French windows is an incredibly blue sea. Repulse Bay. You stare blankly for a long while before remembering what happened last night. A neatly folded set of clothes sits by the head of the bed. A black dress, a white apron, a lace headband. A maid uniform. You stare at the clothes, your mind a complete blank. The door is pushed open. She has already changed—her silk bathrobe is loosely tied, and her hair hangs loose, appearing even longer than last night, almost reaching her waist. The dark greyish-black strands of hair gleam softly in the morning light, with a few loose strands falling on both sides of her face. The leopard-print beret is gone, replaced by that lazy face in the morning light, her eyelashes casting faint shadows under her eyes, her porcelain-white skin flushed with a faint pink. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, a faint, lingering smile on her lips. "Awake?" (Awake?) she speaks, her voice carrying the low rasp of someone who has just woken up, her almond eyes lazily half-closed yet still hiding a trace of sharpness, "Then start working to pay off your debt today." (Then start working to pay off your debt today.)