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My HKYWA Submission 2026

Feb 7

5 min read

2

7

“Timmy! I told you to brush your teeth!” Mom called. “Stop playing catch with him, Richard!”


Timmy rushed inside, dropping his mitt on the table. He brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. A moment later, Mom came and tucked him in.


“Can you tell me that story about ancestor Qian again?” Timmy inquired.


“You’ve heard this many times,” Mom sighed.


“Please? I’m seven now, you promised to tell me everything when I’m older!” Timmy pleaded, bouncing slightly.


Mom hesitated, her thumb brushing the edge of Timmy’s blanket protectively. She tried to maintain a stern expression but failed, letting out a soft laugh. “Fine, you’re a big boy now,” she said, sitting at the edge of his bed.


She cleared her throat and began, “A long time ago, in Chang’an…”


“Before Grandpa was born?” Timmy interrupted.


She smiled, ruffling his hair. “Way before Grandpa’s grandparents. Our ancestor, Zhang Qian, left his hometown to explore the Silk Road. It was a dangerous adventure.”


Dad came to the door, casting a long shadow from the hallway light. “What’s happening?”


Mom replied, “I’m telling Timmy the real story of ancestor Qian, since he’s older now.”


Dad cracked a smile. “Can I join?”


Mom nodded. “Of course, Richard,” she said softly.


She continued, “Not long after he left, he caught a deadly disease.”


“Dysentery, right?” Dad asked.


“Yes, Richard, you’ve heard this story multiple times,” Mom said, though a smile tugged at her lips.


“Sorry, I forgot,” he winked.


Mom elaborated, “He passed away, leaving his wife and kids to run the family business back in Chang’an. At first, business was booming. But when the Silk Road opened, everything changed. Traders returned with teas that smelled of distant mountains and exotic spices no one in the city had ever tasted. Crowds drifted to other stalls. Day by day, fewer customers came. Shelves stayed full; the money box stayed light. At night, the family whispered in the dark, wondering how much longer they could last.


They finally turned to the last solution: the three sons, Xing, Yao, and Qian, would travel the Silk Road through Alma-Ata and on to Tashkent in search of foreign goods that would revive the family business. Their parents were terrified with the memory of ancestor Qian dying still fresh.”


Dad contributed, “Their father was especially worried. He’d been raised by only his mother, with no memories of his own father. But despite their parents’ pleas, the brothers embarked, taking their family’s best products and most of their savings.


They joined a caravan heading west, hopes high. Before they left, an old man who haggled with shopkeepers stopped them.


‘Aye, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on the Silk Road too many times to count. I’ve seen every pebble, every drop of blood spilled, and every good exchanged. Let me give you some advice.’ The brothers leaned in, intrigued.


‘Trust no one but your own kin,’ the old man continued, his voice low and rough. ‘Out there, smiles hide knives. If you are ever in danger, assume any kindness is a trap.’ The brothers shuddered but nodded. They began to step away when the old man suddenly shouted after them, his eyes sharp and unsettling. ‘And remember this. Knowledge is worth more than any treasure you carry.’


His words lingered ominously. The brothers thanked him quickly and climbed aboard their caravan as the camels carried them into the fading light.”


Mom proceeded, “They carried nothing but parcels of trade goods and the old man’s warning in their minds. At first, the road looked harmless. But that ended quickly as copper rings, combs, and trinkets littered the trail… even corpses. The items they picked up were leftovers from the deceased. At camps, they fumbled through strange languages, trading for food. They heard whispers about raiders and merchants who poisoned rivals. The brothers finally understood the old man’s advice.”


Timmy’s fingers tightened around his pillow. “People really… died there?” he murmured.


Mom nodded gently. “Powerful monsoons swept away some of their goods, forcing them to take shelter in a cave. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone. Soon after, they faced bandits demanding all their possessions. Thinking fast, Yao pretended to be a plague victim, covering his mouth and coughing violently. The others followed suit until the bandits turned away, repulsed.”


Dad contributed, “Over time, the brothers developed their own skills. Yao bargained fluently in other languages. Xing became adept with the bow, guarding their supplies at night. The youngest, Qian, boosted morale with songs and stories from home, reminding them why they came. They began to see the Silk Road not only as a trade route, but as threads weaving together people’s cultures and destinies.


Months passed; their supplies dwindled. One night, they met a group of travelers offering food and shelter. Temporarily forgetting the old man’s advice, they accepted. The travelers were about to ambush them, but Xing woke just in time. A struggle broke out under the pale moonlight.


When the dust settled, their attackers had fled, stealing the brothers’ caravan and supplies. Qian was injured. Both Yao and Qian wanted to turn back, but Xing, the eldest, refused. ‘We have come too far,’ he said. ‘We cannot return to our parents with nothing but a story of failure.’”


Mom sighed, though a ghost of a smile remained. “Alright, who’s telling this story?” She continued, “Following faint caravan trails, they found an abandoned outpost. Inside were pieces of old maps, torn silk, and the remains of forgotten travelers. Among the relics was a trinket that caught Yao’s eye: a small emerald pendant with their family name engraved on the back. Yao held it, feeling the terrible weight of it–the price of ambition, paid across generations. The desert wind howled outside, covering their footsteps. As they lay on the cool sand, they wondered if their parents were okay.


The next day, they rose to resume their journey, but Qian wouldn’t wake.”


Timmy’s eyebrows knit together. “Mom… is this the sad part?”


She nodded mournfully. “He died of dysentery, meeting the same fate as his grandfather. With tears in their eyes, Xing and Yao began the arduous journey home.


Eventually, they returned, one brother short. The family still struggled for customers. But thirteen years later, Xing’s own children set out. Their journey was different. Successful. The family business became renowned in China. People came from all over the world. Even Emperor Ping bought a sacred treasure from them. Another time, a mysterious man bought a cursed vase, only to never be seen again.”


“What did he buy, Mommy?” Timmy asked with puppy eyes.


“That’s a story for another time,” she said warmly, checking her watch. “It’s fifteen minutes after your bedtime, Timmy. Get some rest; you have soccer practice in the morning.”


“He’ll understand when he needs to,” Dad said tenderly, not to Timmy, but to Mom, his voice carrying a weight that made the air feel still.


Mom slipped out, and Dad leaned in to kiss Timmy’s forehead. As he pulled back, something flickered at his neck. A brief glint of emerald green.


Timmy blinked. “Dad…?”


But the door closed before he could finish, sealing the room in darkness. The green light lingered in his mind, pulsing like a silent heartbeat. It felt like a secret he was meant to one day discover, and a warning he was too young to hear. A legacy that was equal parts treasure and trap, waiting for him in the dark.




Feb 7

5 min read

2

7

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