Baodao Youxin

Write the entire island as a belated love letter. On the night of the typhoon, my grandma dug out an airmail letter from the Showa era, with the sentence "May you remember the wind in the Pacific", and asked "me" to set foot on the railway to find the recipient for the deceased. The story is like a matryoshka envelope. Every time you open it, time goes back ten years: Keelung Yugang, Green Island Prison, Hualien Stone Terrace. The postmarks connect three generations separated, the mother tongue and the sea breeze. The characters are few and far between but stand firm: the grandmother who never left Taipei wrote hundreds of letters in three languages ​​that had nowhere to be delivered; the father who disappeared in 1979 left only a round-trip ticket from Kaohsiung to Keelung; the bottle picked up by the Green Island boy contained blessings written by a political prisoner in 1953 to himself at the age of 30. Yulu's words are soft and waxy but tough. The steam train passes through the tunnel, and "the darkness rubs every face into the same postmark." There is no signature in the whole article, only congratulatory messages in Hokkien, Japanese, and Amis languages. The reader has to turn to the last page to decode, just like the recipient who tossed and turned before he could understand the sentence. When you close the book, you will subconsciously touch your pocket - as if you are carrying an unsent letter. No matter how big the treasure island is, it can contain all the wanderings; no matter how small the envelope is, it can contain the entire universe. If you have ever hesitated to make that overseas call at the 7-11 door late at night, treat this book like a stamp and stick it to your heart, and it will arrive for you.

So what will be in that letter.

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