Fiction: Group 4
Memories Returned by Moonlight
West Island School, Chen, Serena - 14, Fiction: Group 4
he was about a year old when we found her, stranded, and alone in the moonlit night. It feels so long
since then, but I still remember the first feature that caught my attention when I saw her, her eyes.
They were crystal blue, almost an indigo shade, and lined with deep silver. Her coat, though covered
in dirt and grime, was a beautiful shade of white, almost illuminating the dark night. I remember my
grandmother tugging at my sleeve, telling me that we needed to go, but there was something about her.
Maybe it was her eyes, watching me curiously, insistently, which made me want to stay. Stray dogs were a
common sight in my village, victims of people who didn’t have the heart to look after them any more. But
even though, I didn’t believe I had ever seen this stray before. However, there was something oddly familiar
about her flawless white fur as it flowed in the soft evening breeze. “Hailey,” grandmother’s voice called me
back to reality. Sighing, I followed her towards the road home. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw a
flash of white. The movement was so graceful it seemed she was flying, before vanishing into the night.
‘Mom’ and ‘dad’ are two words that haven’t passed my lips for many years. For as long as I let my memory
take me, my grandparents have been the ones who had raised me, took care of me, and gave me the love
closest to parenthood. I was never told much about my parents. Only that they were both killed in a car
accident when I was still young. Grandfather worries about me sometimes. I’ve never been very social, a
home-schooled child who spends most of her time alone. But loneliness has never bothered me too much.
It has become a big part of me, a part where love and trust used to be. When I’m alone, I get more time to
think. Reading has always been a hobby of mine. The stories captured so delicately in hundreds of pages are
fascinating to me. I've read about characters with lifestyles so different from my own, where the people have
real families, and friends, and of course, the happy ending that I never had.
When I was younger, my grandfather used to tell me many captivating stories and legends of a sacred river.
Tales of mythical creatures once believed to have roamed these lands, but I can’t imagine them taking place
now. Our little town sits at the very edge of Zhujiang Delta in the Guangdong province of China. Small, and
so left unmarked on most maps. However, size has never held our province behind. Over the years, I’ve seen
change, even in my little village. People say that foreign influence is developing rapidly and will continue to
expand. Nevertheless, our traditional legends never change. I’ve always heard stories about the mysterious
secrets the Pearl River might hold, and though we live near, I have never actually travelled close myself.
Grandfather never saw much point in taking me.‘A muddy, old river,’ he described it as.As of being a good,
traditional family girl, I never speak by to my elders. But deep inside, I felt he was wrong.Through my
bedroom window I could see the luminous waters in the distance, sparkling and flashing in the mid-day sun,
as if threaded with silver beads.Travellers, tourists and fisherman have crowded the shores with boats.A few
were docked just slightly further in the tides, the waves crashing lightly on their wooden decks. Pearl River
Delta is mass in size and stretches far into the north and east.An incredible sum of the three smaller rivers it
is made up of.The stories always said that a time at Pearl River might help you discover yourself. Its tides can
capture your memories and lead you in the direction you’re supposed to go. Magical, and though they are
only myths, I often find myself dreaming about going there when I feel lost. Instead, in those lonely times, I
would hide in my bed and let myself cry, hugging a small pillow that my mother had once made for me.
Sadly, it’s the last thing I have left of her. I didn’t know my parents for long before they died, but it still hurts.
It’s left a wound that can’t be seen, only felt, and it’s a wound that never healed.
The night I first saw the stray, I lay awake in my bed for hours. But listening to the quiet tick-tick of the
clock only made me more restless. I thought about the way she had stared at me, the curious look in her
eyes had made her look strong yet vulnerable at the same time. Strangely, it felt like I had seen her before,
but I was sure that I never had. The clocked kept ticking and the minutes flickered by. Eventually, I let the
sound soothe me. Soon, my eyes closed as I fell into light, shallow sleep.
At first, I thought I was dreaming, but I must have been woken a scratching noise outside my window. A
moment later, I passed it off as rain falling on my windowpane. Nevertheless, something wasn’t right. The
noise continued, and I finally sat up in my bed, squinting in the darkness. Outside my window, everything
was still dim, only lit by streetlights and the gleaming light from the moon. The river looked mystical under
the clear, bright moon, areas that were lighted seemed to glisten like silver pearls. Suddenly, a large figure
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