It was 2024 and Wenlen had still never met her paternal grandfather, Chen Weng-feng.
It was 2025 by the time Wenlen learned that Chen Weng-feng had actually died a quite remarkable death… in 2017.
That it took a decade for the news to arrive was hardly a surprise. Wenlen had long since stopped speaking with her parents; or, maybe, it was the other way around. Shortly after her third semester at University College of London (UCL), when news had reached them that Wenlen had changed majors from civil engineering to “FASHION?!,” the daily calls, the monthly letters, and the bi-annual tuition subsidies ceased suddenly and unceremoniously.
Her financial aid advisor, the oft rosy-cheeked Ms. Toffen, called her in before the winter holidays: “Are you aware that we have not received payment for the rest of the semester?”
Wenlen’s stomach dropped. She looked across the banged-up but freshly varnished, desk. It was hardly bigger than the century-old slabs of wood on which she took her exams in the university’s oldest classrooms. As she gazed around the perfectly square room, Wenlen mused that Ms. Toffen must have use this office for conversations and another office for all of her administrative paperwork.
Ms. Toffen, to her credit, had a real gift for dealing with international students. Not only was she efficient in helping them navigate the labyrinthine bureaucracy of British higher education system, but she also seemed purpose-drive to facilitate these exact types of conversation. It was as if her calling was to defend the blossoming of the young adult mind in the incredibly free and limitless city of London and help student from more conservative backgrounds navigate the inevitable collision course such freedom of mind often entailed with their families.
“No[re], I really hadn’t any idea” Wenlen responded in a smoked-glass British accent that sounded more like a young and reckless female Mic Jagger than like the perfectly manicured singing voices of Hong Kong “English Pop” that Wenlen had imitated growing up – Cantopop artist like G.E.M.
Ms. Toffen wrote a number on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk – “this is what you need – come back if you need anything – you are not the first to follow your heart, and as long as I am sitting in this godforsaken cube of a room 250 days a year, you will certainly not be the last. I’ve never lost this game and I’m not about to start losing now.” She let out a courteous huff to signal the meeting had concluded and that was that.
Wenlen took on two part-time jobs (server + au pare), relocated to a shared flat on the outer rim of the city, and made it happen through sheer grit and an unhealthy obsession with the Rolling Stones early catalogue, everything up to 1981’s “Tattoo You.” In fact, she consumed so much of their music that her already transitory accent began to take on a rather surprising Black American patois – saturated by the inflections, idioms and blues rhythms that had catapulted the Stones to international fame in the first place.
Wenlen absolutely thrived in the program and continued to expand into own body and soul. She was no longer a bonsai tree, but rather, a perineal evergreen planted in the perfect plot of soil. Her designs were radical – the kind of radical, concept driven designs that had catapulted the Japanese designer Yayoi Kusama to international acclaim in the 1960s. Her WITHOUT series – hoods without sweaters; pants without waistlines; glasses without frames – earned her a prestigious summer internship at Goyard working directly with the creative director on their Paris Fashion Week portfolio.
During her second to last semester, Wenlen received a letter from her uncle Chun-Yin – her mother’s brother, twenty years junior. Her parents – both civil engineers – had disowned their Taiwanese passports, emigrated to mainland China and shipped off as part of the Chinese Belt and Road Initiative. Last Chun-Yin had heard, they were living in Kazakhstan – the “Middle Corridor” – where her father Lin was applying his subject matter expertise in cost-efficient asphalt manufacturing and her mother Nakita, was running training seminars on rainwater runoff design. “Well at least they have each other,” Wenlen remembered thinking at the time. The letter had concluded with “I don’t know what to say other than… don’t forget, you still have family here in Taichung. Your grandfather Chen Weng-fend still loves you.”
Ten years passed in the blink of an eye. One day she woke up and it was already 2025. Had Wenlen ever responded to Chun-Yin’s letter? Honestly, she couldn’t remember. Shame can be a power amnesiac and the more time that had passed, the less likely it was to ever receive a response. That’s not to say it didn’t weigh heavy on her – responding to the letter was without a doubt, the top item on her “shit list” up there with immigration paperwork, taxes, her called off engagement. Especially the last words – “Your grandfather Chen Weng-feng still loves you.” What bothered her so much about this line? Well for one it was the sentences placement at the end of the stanza – perfectly positioned as the last thing said and thus the first thing that any subsequent response she would write would need to address. But more than that it was the word still (look up in Taiwanese). What could that even mean, still – she had never even met the man.
Ten years passed. She no longer listened to the Rolling Stones at all – or music for that matter. She listened almost exclusive to BBC World News, its news anchors kept her company. After a decade plus of insane hours working for various trust-fund design boutiques that all seemed to end rather unceremoniously whenever the founder got married, got bored, got pregnant, got acquired or retired, Wenlen found herself managing a team of four buyers at one of the world’s leading textile importers.
Ten years passed and try as she might, she could not shake the feeling that she had fallen asleep on the tube and woken up several stops too late. So she got off the train, took the stairs under the track and walked over to the other side of the tracks. She boarded the same train, but the opposite direction. “Please mind the gap.” A few days before she left London, she stopped by her alma matter. For whatever reason, she could not imagine heading back to Taiwan without first seeing Ms. Toffen but as she walked through the campus to the cubicle where the two had repotted Wenlen all those years ago, she found in its place a new building of modern, androgynous and emotionless design. She walked in and asked the receptionist if Ms. Toffee was still there but the receptionist or the various other staff at the Financial Aid department had no recollection of the woman.
Wenlen left for Taiwan two days later.
The flight from London was long. It felt like ten years. It took two days from tarmac to tarmac. Wenlen landed at 5am at Taipei Taoyuan International Airport – she hadn’t been here since she had left. The same station on an opposite track. Working her way backwards. She had packed light. She, more than anyone, knew that Asia was of a source of rather than destination for clothing.
“How long will you be staying in Taiwan?” the immigration man asked her in perfect English. She didn’t know.
“A week,” she hoped.
“What is the purpose of your trip?” he asked, this time in a more officious tone. Again, she didn’t know.
“Vacation.” They let her in.
She had a few hours to kill until check-in and worked her way down to the airport food court, to 之軒優植學院 (the Academy of Purify Life Bakery) as if on autopilot. It was always the first restaurant to open at Arrivals. She grabbed the tongs from exactly where she had left them all those years ago and grabbed her favorites: 全植丹麥熱狗排 (Veggie Danish Hot Dog Bun) and 蒜蒜包 (Cream Cheese Garlic Bread), along with a pot of Oolong Tea, and of course, with no parents there to tell her no, a slice of Chia Te Pineapple Cake.
She sat at the third cafeteria table from the cashier, the one that she had eaten so many snacks with her parents over the years, only this time, alone. But at least the food had never tasted better, the dough so eggy, savory, and perfectly crisp – the filings as if cooked in a new type of butter or olive oil that she had all but forgotten. She reached into her backpack and pulled out her iPad, as well as a paper bag enclosing the letter her uncle had sent all those years ago. She connected to the WiFi as various janitors and servers pushed carts stacked with clean dishes past her, with smiles and a sense of purpose. “Routine is a hell of a drug,” Wenlen thought to herself, “and breaking routine is a hell of a comedown.”
She looked up the address, the blue-inked Latin letters faded and smudged after years of waiting. With a bit of online sleuthing, she was fairly confident that she had located her uncle’s address on Google Maps. As her tea opened up, she dug deep into her memories and corroborated the location as it related to the few remaining landmarks from her childhood – statues, parks and bridges hidden amongst a new maze of boba tea and minimalist coffee shops. With Taiwan’s incredibly static real estate market, provided her uncle was still on this earth, she knew if she followed the Google Maps directions, it would likely lead her from her present directly to her past. But what about her future? “Is my past my future?” she wondered but decided to retreat from the line of questioning and into the pineapple cake. She used the toilet – taken aback the pre-heated seat and incredibly high level of sanitation – pulled out some TWD from the ATM and made her way onto the local (commuter) train to Taipei’s Main Station.
As the train winded its way through the overcast morning, through Taoyaun and New Taipei City, Wenlen felt a tinge of embarrassment at her first culture shock: of the twenty people in her subway car, sixteen had hopped on the early morning train only to fall immediately back to sleep. The green glow that adorned either side of the train tracks reminded her of her many rail trips around the U.K. But unlike the flat and tamed horizontals of Britain, this chaotic medley of palms, evergreens and bamboos clearly favored the vertical.
“Taipei Main Station” the announcement rang out and like a magician snapping their fingers, the train cabin woke up reluctantly and emptied the car. “Routine is a hell of drug,” she was hungry again.
The rest of her day was entirely uneventful. She spent it in a spacious four-star hotel room that fell within her budget only because it was a Tuesday during the rare part of the year with no holidays on the horizon. She ordered room service, took two cat naps, two hot showers, and spent the in-between parsing local TV channels, news stations playing CCTV of minor car crashes, hooligans getting perp walked after putting unknown substances in food vats at night markets, that type of thing – criminal acts that would never make the news in London. She installed an e-sim and deleted half the apps on her phone. She knew her iPhone contained more baggage than the 8kg suitcase she had packed. She had forgotten to unpack her phone but it gave her something to do while she waited for the sun to rise. At eight a.m., she checked out of the hotel and went straight back to Taipei Main Station. As if a local, she fell asleep on the train and woke up a stop before Taichung. While she had intended to use the 45 minute train to prepare for whatever emotional journey laid ahead, her unexpected snooze gave her just enough time to read the letter one more time: “Your grandfather Chen Weng-fend still loves you.”
“Next Stop: Taichung Rail Station.” Wenlen found herself rapidly decelerating on an entirely unfamiliar elevated track, threaded through what look like a giant metallic crest that reminded her of some of the more delicate – if not pretentious – soup garnishes one was likely to find at Michelin-starred Chinese restaurants in London – like deconstructed, ethically sourced “birds nest soup” – a Qing Dynasty speciality – or reconstructed – not-so ethically sourced “shark fin soup” – one of the Four Sea Treasures (鲍参翅肚) of traditional Chinese food. She was hungry again.
“Is this Taichung? I remember it looking… different,” she asked a college-aged girl in Chinese. The girl was traveling with a crossbody bag adorned with character plushies that seemed to date back to Wenlen’s own youth: the cat from Doraemon, the male ballerinas from Crayon Shin Chan, and of course,a pink Pikachu wearing librarian glasses. Wenlen almost giggled but realized the girls accessories were no more out of place than the Rolling Stones keychain she had on her keys in London. Wenlen conceded, perhaps classic cartoons were the classic rock of Asia?
“Is this your first time at the new station?” the girl replied in perfect English. “Don’t worry the old one is still here – and the one before it too.” Wenlen must have looked confused because the girl followed up with “You can follow me.” And when the doors opened, Wenlen followed the girl to the exit gates, down an escalator and back to the outdoor plaza where the historic, traditional Japanese-built train station remained, unchanged, almost identical to how she remembered it. The girl motioned over to it – “what did I tell you, it’s still here” – and rolled her eyes – to which Wenlen responded – “when did they stop using it?”
“When I was about 11 years old, so…” Wenlen looked at the plushies again – “must’ve been 2017.” Wenlen thanked the girl, but not before feeling her stomach collapse in on itself like an abandoned sulphur mine in a once-in-a-century typhoon. She knew instinctively, there was no way her grandfather – or anyone older than 80 years old – worked at the new train station. It was far too modern and efficient. For the first time, she sensed her grandfather was dead.
Wenlen ran a hundred steps to catch up with the student. “I’m Wenlen, Wenlen Weng-fend.” The girl gave her a funny look, followed by a big smile.
“Hi Wenlen, I’m Tiffany Yonghe. Where are you from?”
“I live in London…” Tiffany looked starstruck, “but I grew up in Kaohsiung.”
“LONDON! How cool” she tried to regain her composure but it was futile. “What a dream. I’m obsessed with the culture – Downton Abbey! – Mick Jagger – well, everything but the food,” she pulled out a plastic bag with two red bean curd puff pastries and Wenlen gladly accepted. It was incredible.
“I made these ones myself – this specific recipe is one I’ve been baking since eight grade.”
Wenlen looked at the half eaten pastry and then back at Tiffany.
“The secret ingredient is paprika. So what brings you to here from London? I hear the train stations there are quite the site to behold. King’s Cross. Oh yeah and Platform 8 3/4.”
Wenlen laughed again. Something about this girl just exuded cool, the rarest form of confidence. “Well actually, I haven’t been back since I was 18.” She looked at Tiffany with a smirk that revealed she knew Tiffany – like so many of the people in her life – had still not been able to carbon date her. “I’m 35 now. I guess you could say…” Wenlen hadn’t rationalized, articulated, or vocalized any of the words that were about to come out of her mouth – in fact, she barely had a response for the customs agent with her meek “vacation” – “I guess you could say…”
Sensing she had put Wenlen on the spot, Tiffany cut her off. “Wow… seventeen years, that’s heavy… whipping cream.”
“Yea… I guess you could say… I feel heavy.”
“Sorry I do this thing where I turn adjectives into… baking. And your family still lives here?”
“We’re about to find out.”
Tiffany asked Wenlen where she was staying – “don’t worry, that’s a nice hotel” – and gave her some more pastries from her bag – her wax apple scones, the latest addition to her “menu.”
“Do you always carry so many pastries with you?”
“Yes, always” – Tiffany pointed at her rather slender figure. “As you can tell, I don’t eat them all myself – that’s the curse of the baker, I suppose – it takes us weeks to get it just the recipes right but we can’t even enjoy the fruits of our labor. So I bring these to university and hand them out. Who knows, maybe one of my MBA colleagues at NCHU will like it so much they invest in the bakery I plan on opening.” The two exchanged WhatsApp numbers and then split ways.
Other than the customs agent, this had been Wenlen’s first actual conversation in days, perhaps even a week. She had used an automated kiosk for her flight, an automated kiosk for the train station, an automated kiosk for her hotel reservations. In the week(s) before her departure from London, had she even had a single call? No, now that she thought back on it – she had conducted work almost entirely via email and messaging apps. How had she left things in London?
The conversation with Tiffany was like a breath of fresh air – like a sprinkle of paprika she didn’t know she needed – she reminded Wenlen of herself when she was that age: fiercely independent, obsessed with her craft, willing to tackle the biggest and smallest challenges life would throw her way. But the two were nothing alike. Wenlen was either running from something or racing towards something. And now she was… heavy whipping cream?
Wenlen skipped the automated kiosk and went straight to the concierge. She showed her British passport and paid with her British credit card. The concierge was an older gentleman with a silver, flat-top style haircut that looked as if it had been recently shorn – as recently as that morning. His hair had that sort of “wet” gel texture that seemed impossible to recreate outside of a barbershop. Sure, you could buy the same product the barber put on your freshly cut hair – you might even have a swinging mirror that allows you to see both sides of your head, but try as you will, you can never get the look of fresh cut “wet” gel hair. Of this Wenlen was sure. She had, after all, overseen more Paris London Milan Fashion Week shows that she could count on two hands. And while male hair was in no way her specialty, the “wet” gel look absolutely dominated the runway. The concierge had spent time in the U.K. – in Leeds – working as a busboy and then as a logistics officer. He hated the Stones but loved the Beatles. “Room 1107, we have you here for five nights. My name is Chai – feel free to call down or come see me if we can do anything to make your stay better.”
From her corner room, she could see the whole city laid out before her. Or at least half of it. A few blocks away, the soup garnish train station and the two other train stations that preceded it. The plaza where she had met Tiffany. Through the gaps in other hotels and high rises, she could also see her next destination – the street for where her uncle had sent the postcard. She took a shower only to discover that hotels no longer provided soap, shampoo or conditioner as a result of a recent law. With a towel wrapped around her rinsed, not cleaned hair, she looked at her face in the mirror: “Heavy heavy whipping cream.”
The walk to her uncle’s condo was no more than 10 blocks, but the sporadic rain required her to purchase an umbrella. Having had two days to observe Taiwan’s umbrella culture – she opted for the most popular solution – a small, transparent umbrella she could rest on her shoulders while looking ahead. Wenlen walked up to the building. The first floor sold light sandwiches – the type with the crust cut off – had two sets of washer dryers and also sold a small collection of manga comics and playing cards. She went up to the clerk, non-automated, and asked in Chinese – “hello, how do I get to the condo, an old friend is expecting me.” A stout lady in pajamas reading manga, eating a sandwich and washing her laundry glared at her, as if to imply that showing up unannounced was still taboo regardless of how old the friend was – maybe Wenlen should have asked in English – but the clerk directed her to the residential entrance without hesitation and next thing she know, Wenlen was standing face-to-face with the door to her past, present and future. The door was industrial white – the type of color that was not paint, but rather seemed as if it an inherent physical characteristic of the material from which it was made. It was stained yellow, beige and tan and the chintzy faux-gold hardware was chipped and flaking, revealing the nondescript rusted black metal that made it up. She knocked three times. Once for her past, once for her present and once for her future. She heard a voice and before she knew it, she was wrapped in the arms of a man she had not seen since she was 18 and could not tell where her tears ended and where his began in the family stream that was love, hurt and regret.
He welcomed her into his condo and prepared an oolong tea he “had been saving for this exact occasion” – “but uncle, doesn’t tea expire?” – “not this one Wenlen” – and Wnelen busted out the wax apple scones and despite the millions of things they wanted to say to each other – and the thousands of more immediate questions like “what are you doing here?,” “are you okay?,” “how long are you staying?,” “does your family know you are here?” – instead, of everything that needed to be said, Chun-Yin sat quietly in front of a trail of breadcrumbs, in seemingly deep thought that resolved with the question – “Wenlen – I use know, where did you get these scones?” and Wenlen thought that maybe heavy whipping cream was not so heavy after all.
Her uncle had aged considerably since their last encounter. For one, he was now bald. For two, he was now fat. And for three, he was now divorced “but seeing someone.” And for four, “I still talk to your aunt every week.” And for five, “I think you would love Jun – he is a copywriter – we’ve been together for three years – he wants to get married now, now that we can, but I prefer to do my own taxes.” Wenlen looked around the room and sure enough, saw artifacts of cohabitation – textbooks on advertising and magazine subscriptions to young professional organizations that her uncle clearly had no interest in, a staggering amount of reading glasses and assorted glasses cases and glasses spray, shoes and jackets that seemed comically small given her uncles new heavyset stature.
“Uncle – I am so happy for you,” the tears were as steady and as the rain out side – “I have never loved you more and could not be more proud of you.”
“Thank you Wenlen – things are great here – if you stick around long enough, I know your aunt would love to see you too. Losing you was my only real regret in this life. Not that regret is the right word – but not hearing from you for all of those years – not knowing if we’d ever get this change to coexist as the adults we want to be in life – was something I carried around every day like a charm on a bracelet that I never take off. Of course, I knew you were alive still. Thank you for not changing your name and thank you Mr. Google.” He laughed a deep laugh and Wenlen felt a wave of shame that she had never thought of returning the favor – of Googling her family to ensure the binary of their existence was in the affirmative.
“Well, we have lots to talk about no doubt. Thousands of words. I’m sure you would like to know what’s up with your family. But first, you never answered me: where in the world did you get those scones? You know” he lifted his belly, “I didn’t get this way by not trying every bakery in Taichung. These must be from Taipei.”
“Actually uncle, these are from a friend here in Taichung,” Chun-Yin gave her a curious look as if to say – “so you saw your friends before your family?” – causing Wenlen to add, “a new friend – we met on the train this morning.”
“Truly exceptional. What is that… wax apple? How about we go out to lunch and I can catch you up? You also never told me, how long are you sticking around Taichung?”
“Who says I’m leaving?” the words slipped out before Wenlen could stop them and they both laughed, put their shoes back on by the doorway, grabbed matching clear umbrellas, worked their way down to the manga sandwich laundromat at which point the stern pajama lady, still waiting for her clothes to dry, in a complete about-face asked “Chun-Yin, who is this wonderful young lady?” – “This is my niece Wenlen – she is visiting home from London for the first time in many years” – and the pajama lady stood up and bowed and heaped enormous praise on Wenlen, her hair, her shoes and her not-so-freshly laundered clothes, taking strange pride in the fact that Chun-Yin’s niece had decided to travel two days tarmac-to-tarmac, take the train from Taipei and visit this specific, nondescript building with its doors made from white material rather than painted.
Wenlen and Chun-Yin walked down the block to a small cafe that was incredibly busy. It was peak lunch hour and the rain started really coming down. Upon seeing Chun-Yin’s round belly, the host seemingly manifested a two-top out of thin air and seated them immediately. Wenlen’s phone buzzed – it was Tiffany: “Hope you found your uncle – or whatever it is you were looking for! Let me know if you need more pastries!” Wenlen quickly responded “是的 (yes) and 是的 (yes) and 是的 (yes).”
Chun-Yin ordered them an assortment of dishes that were Chinese, Japanese and Taiwanese in origin and got into it as soon as each had a glass of hot tea in their hands: “Well, Wenlen – I don’t know where to start,” he sighed heavily. “Your parents are still alive. Still in Kazakhstan. They visited me last year but I doubt they will visit again. Let’s just say, they don’t approve of my lifestyle. They asked about you and I told them what I knew – Mr. Google – the various designers you had worked for – the countless accolades – they were quite pleased to hear you went from design houses to import / export and logistics. But it is always so hard to tell with those two. Anyways, your parents returned for your… grandfather’s funeral. Chen Weng-feng died in 2017 at the age of 83.”
Wenlen could feel her eyes swell and her throat tighten up.
“It was unexpected and he died in truly the most remarkable manner. It made the international headlines. He died at the ribbon-cutting for the new train station. And not only that, but he was the ribbon cutter. You know he worked in the old station his whole life, since he was 18 years old. What’s that… since 1942? It was poetic, sure, but not a poem any of had wanted to read. Still it made the papers. I believe it even inspired a scene in a famous movie that came out last year.”
Wenlen didn’t know what to say – she had never met the man, even though “he always loved her.” Yes, she was ridden with guilt and regret but also buoyed by the dark poetry of it all. She had sensed it at the train station and now it had been confirmed – almost exactly as she had envisioned. Unlike the update about her parents, which filled with information rather than emotion, like reading about something bad in an encyclopedia – the news about Chen Weng-feng felt like two thumbs on her heart, but she didn’t cry. Perhaps she was out of tears. Or maybe the restaurant was simply too crowded – too many plates and tea cups clattering – the steady roaring din of the kitchen – it was as crowded as free breakfast on a fully booked flights.
“He always loved you – even if your mother didn’t let you know it – let you get close. Chen Weng-feng came with your aunt and I as we went to court to get a divorce. He would join Jun and I for monthly dinners up until the end. He was one-of-a-kind. And in his final chapter of life – he did something quite remarkable. But let’s eat first and we can head over to the station afterwards and I can show you.”
Lunch was a hodgepodge of Chinese, Japanese and Taiwanese dishes – Szechuan pepper chicken, morning glory with garlic, steamed cabbage, orange fish, twice cooked pork over rice, and takoyaki around a crowded table. The conversation retreated back to simpler themes – most notably those of culture and current events – the recent earthquake, the latest Chinese military drills, K-Pop Demon Hunters, UNIQLO’s global fashion takeover. Wenlen asked for the check and pulled out her credit card, but after a brief “bill battle” (客氣一下), Chun-Yin ended up paying the tab, proclaiming – “you paid for the airplane, let me pick this one up.”
They arrived at Taichung Rail Station shortly after lunch – the rain was still heavy but Wenlen felt as if she was in a living dream and in dreams, no matter how hard it rained, the dreamer never gets wet. First, Chun-Yen gave her a tour of the new station – the 30-meter dragonfly sculpture – the plaza surrounded by the Gaudi-esque , and finally, in the middle of it all, he showed her a plaque dedicated to Chen Weng-feng (1924-2017). Then they made their way to the “old station” – “you see, they wanted to tear this down but your grandfather – always the sneak – was always running circles around the next generation. By this time he was – he must’ve been in his late 70s – working mainly as a greeter who made sure the doors were clear before blowing his whistle and giving the conductor the ‘all clear.’ Anyways, Chen Weng-feng would say to all the passengers over 60, in Taiwanese of course, ‘don’t let them knock down the Old Station’ and sometimes even add ‘they’ll take it all if we let them.’ Anyways, you can imagine the city officials shock when slowly but surely, the pensioners and retirees of Taichung began loitering around the station with signs that said “Don’t let them knock down the Old Station’ and sometimes even, ‘They’ll take it all if we let them’”
“No way”
“Yes, way. Without his activism, it is likely that there would be nothing left of this building.”
As they walked through the old station – Wenlen felt a calmness she hadn’t felt in decades. She thought back to a recent article she had read about how hugging trees has been shown to lower blood pressure and increase circulation. Yes, walking through the old station, with its modern, international food court, its fashion boutiques selling admittedly innovative designs from Taiwanese fashion designers, its toy stores full of trains and kawaii plushies, its “Peanuts” pop-up store selling Snoopy everything, and the speakeasy bars and ramen shops set in old train cars that would never move again, Wenlen felt that tree-hugging calmness – it was, as if, for the first time in her life, she understood how the past, present and future can all coexist. Chun-Yen noticed her quietude – her taking-it-all-in-ness but did not interrupt until the made their way to a 7.5 meter steel roll-up door. She watched in wonder as Chun-Yen took out a key and unlocked the bottom lock, on his two knees rather than bent at the hip. Chun-Yen rolled it up, walked in and flipped on the lights revealing an 30 square meter, brick lined room. He looked over at Wenlen and realized she still didn’t get it yet.
“This was Weng-Feng’s second to last act as station master. He bought this stall in cash, under your name, and made me the trustee, in case you ever returned.”
Wenlen took a deep step into the space and felt the world go quiet – all the hums and vibrations from the modern world – the rolling wheels of modern luggage – the squeak of modern rubber shoes – it all dissipated, replaced only by a profound silence that few ever experience until they die. The room was grounded, there was no denying it. Wenlen slowly made her way into the middle of the room and looked out to the opening from which they had entered. She spun around in a circle, slowly turned up the volume dial in her mind’s eye. She could hear children’s laughter, mom’s gossiping, old men disallowing their grandkids from paying the bill. In that instant, she could hear the rolling door slide up and down five thousand times, ten thousand times – she heard her grandpa – “they’ll take it all if you let them” – a hundred times – a thousand times – warning those petitioners, many of whom were undoubtedly in an equally quiet space, now deceased – that in the absence of the past, there is no future. To hear the past and the future all at once didn’t bother her. She walked over to her uncle and he wrapped her in his arm: they cried together for the time lost stuck between stations, the passengers who would never return, and, perhaps more than anything, the relief at finally arriving at their destination after decades of travel.
That night, from her hotel room looking over the city of Taichung, she texted Tiffany: “I know this sounds crazy, but how would you like to start a bakery together?”
“You’re right that does sound crazy :p”
“We can call it the Rolling Scones”
“OMG. I LOVE IT. Maybe you can meet me at the old train station tomorrow and we can put our heads together and see if we can’t come up with something? Honestly, all we need is about 20 square meters. With your experience and my recipes, we could really leave this world more delicious than we found it.” And so it was. The Rolling Scones, est. 2026.
