The winds are strong outside, howling like wolves in the night. A strong rain had settled, cloaking District 29 in a dense, grey shroud of pit-pat-pattering. Lily is tucked in bed, waiting for her grandmother's goodnight kiss. Father and mother are out. But not out-out, they are really far out. Somewhere called Tai-land and Hon-Kong. She could not quite remember the names, but it seems they are really far away, and wouldn't be back for nights. Not like before when they would come back in the morning, hands warmed from bakeries, or doused in the familiar smell of their offise. "Pop! We will be back again", mother used to exclaim, before planting a deep kiss onto Lily's cheek as father hugs her tight, waving her goodbye the next. The day would turn to night in an instant, and they would be back for her when she runs to the door.
Not this time, no. Mother and father will both be in faraway places, and Lily only hopes she could see them soon, again.
"Let's drink some hot chocolate, my dear, your eyes are still swollen."
Grandmother brings a tray of two steaming mugs, her face a warm, gentle light. The lady's hair was silver, shining in the noisy light from the streets outside. It soothed the air amidst the screaming kaleidoscope of artificial light pouring in from the nightlife. Her wrinkles are deep, but elegant, drawing round lines like the curves of a flowing river.
She sits beside Lily in her bed. Lily breathes deeply. The smell of cinnamon and apple fill her lungs. She feels comforted immediately. Grandmother had moved in with her to stay the long mile before her parents would get back. She knew how much her grandchild hated thunder. "Sweet child, don't be worried, they will be back safe and sound."
"I saw mummy cry too when she left this morning. She didn't want me to see."
Poor child. The heavy workload of her parents had come at such a terrible time. But they must do what they have to, to survive. Life is a battle in District 29. In fact, in any other place in the world now. Numbers, notes and digits determine how well one would hold out against time.
"But what about the virus? Isn't there a new one around? I heard about it on the news", Lily asked, big, lumpy tears starting to fall again.
"Oh, they are blessed by guardians and angels. And they have been vaccinated. It should be quite alright. Let's pray for them every night?" Grandmother smiles her sweet smile. Though, even she herself felt a tightness in her heart.
Lily looks down, cheeks still heavy with tears. Madam Tang sighs. Her grandchild has had too much medicine. It has made her pale, and even more unwell.
"Do you remember the time when we visited the park?"
Lily looked up. "Neldren's Park?"
"Yes. What did you like most?"
"The trees. They were this huge." Lily stretches out her hands. "I wish there were more."
"Do you know, there was a time when there were this many, it stretched entire shopping malls, even golfcourses as huge as mountains?" Madam Tang opened her eyes wide, voice hushed like a whisper.
Lily stares, sniffling. "Really? That many?"
"Why, yes, and there were all sorts of creatures - the big bears, elephants, giraffes, sloths, birds, and tiny bees!"
The young child continues to stare, mouth widening now, her eyes alight with wonder. She loves bees. The rain had softened to a drizzle now. Grandmother wipes her nose-snot with a handkerchief.
"And there were more. Not just what you see in the zoo." Madam Tang sips her hot chocolate. It needed more spice.
"What were there?" Lily asked, forgetting the fears that plagued her heart before, at least for a moment.
"Do you want to hear a story? I'll tell you one each night."
Lily nodded excitedly.
"Then drink your hot chocolate. It's getting cold. Slowly! slowly -"
And up the child lifted her mug, drinking a sip as large as a tablespoon - she had never drunk so excitedly before, perhaps because she had always been sleepy, or worried, or clammy. Or all at once, at the same time.
On the touch of the mug back to the tray, a soft 'clink' in the yellow glow of the small 2-room hole of a home, Madam Tang began weaving her stories. Not from a book, a note, or a video, but from a collection of songs sleeping in the deepest memory of her heart. They had been sung in her generation, and the generations before, long before the city had grown, when the people knew words, and when the forests had shrunk. Knocking on their doors, she had awakened them from their deep slumber, and the songs began stirring, eager to come out.