Lai Hin woke to a chilly damp in the room. The wintry air had seeped through the door and the papers pasted over the windows, and he lay there, listening to the soft breathing of his mother, reluctant to stir and to leave the warmth of his bed cover. This December morning his left leg was aching, as it did in cold weather. It was always the shorter leg that hurt, as if it ached to be matched with his normal right leg. He said aloud to himself: ‘It has to be today; or I will lose her forever’, as though she was ever his, and at the sound of his voice, his mother stirred and asked if tea had been made already.
Chang, Victor, The letter writer, Kunapipi, 34(2), 2012.