At dawn, the mist over the Huangpu River lay like a thin veil, slowly climbing the stone steps of the Bund and wrapping the towering foreign-style buildings and their signs in a half-awake dream. A steam whistle sounded across the river, low and lingering, like a love letter from a foreign land. Sampans rocked gently in the tide by the docks, their oars splashing intermittently and stirring up wave after wave of damp, salty air. The city’s heart was beginning to beat, both new and old, both bustling and lonely, just like the beginning of so many stories, which always leave a trace of shadow beyond the glittering surface.
Lin Yulan stood beside an old railing along the Bund, clutching an unopened silver letter. Her qipao had yet to come fully into fashion, its waist fitted just right, while a few strands of hair had come loose from her bun in the morning breeze. She was not the sort of woman to go with the flow. She enjoyed reading history books and, late at night, liked to set her teacup on the windowsill and watch the mist swallow the streetlights. But something about today’s mist was different. She knew the letter contained news her father had brought back from the southern part of Shanghai, news that might bring a turn of fortune in business or herald the family’s decline. She drew a deep breath. Her fingers trembled slightly at the edge of the envelope, but she did not open it at once, as though one more second might bring some invisible point of no return.
Just then, a commotion erupted at the street corner. A foreign-style rickshaw and a hand-pulled rickshaw scraped against each other as they turned. After a few curses, a child’s wail pierced the morning mist.
