Fiction: Group 3
nothing we do can change that. But the curse of humankind is that our purpose is to find a meaning. At this
time, watching fire burn before me, I cannot be a man of God. I may look to the skies for prayer but all I
can see is ash. If I look to the ground for peace, all I can see are bones. How can I have belief when above
me is ash, beneath me are bones, and fire in between? But if there is a Creator, then there is nothing I can
do but hope. Hope is the water the burning wasteland… The Japanese are approaching. The Pearl River
Delta that I can see out this small window is like I have never seen before. It is all red. Everything I see is
red. The blood on Andrew’s face, that red sun on a backdrop of white roses… My time has belittled. Our
final effort is finishing. We are soon to surrender. I can only hope the box is safe. I have the only key. I wish
there was more I could say, more things I want to pour into these pages, but I am empty. I can only say I
tried. It was quite the adventure. I everything the world has been through will be for something, and the
war will end… They are here. There is no time. I wish I could have filled more pages, but it will have to
end short. This was all written to you, Andrew. I speak to you. I hope I will see you soon.
She finished with a large intake of breath. She sat on her knees in silence as she processed
everything she had read. This was the journal of a dead man. A soldier in the Second World War, during
the battle of Hong Kong. She knew it all too well; in fact, outside the very window was the infamous
Stanley Fort visible. The unknown man was delivering a chest filled with something revolutionary in the
war. Presumably, the man was writing this around Christmas of 1941, on what was known as the Black
Christmas, where many people died at the hands of the invading Japanese. The very Peal River Delta he
spoke of was right in front of her, but it was now a sea-green. In her eyes, however, she could only see red
water. She wondered if this was the same window. He wrote with such as style she could visualize
everything he had written perfectly in her head as if she was standing beside him. Tears began to well up in
her eyes upon the knowledge of everything she had just read. Alone, in this crumbling attic, she cried over
the fate of this man and the story. she rested her head on the large leather book and cried, her tears engulfed
in the swirling vortex of chocolate. Perhaps this man liked chocolate. Fire and chocolate. Maybe those were
his last thoughts. Biting back more tears, the stood and picked up the book. She felt something slide within
it, and an object dropped to the floor. She bent down, eyes wide. The book dropped to the floor. She
picked up the object, turned it around, and studied it. She could not breathe.
Shining in the daylight, in her hands lay a silver key.
