"Why does this taste feel so familiar, as if it's etched deep in my soul?"—Mike's Island Journal
It was nearly noon by the time they arrived in Guangzhou. Chen Xiao, Jane's cousin, had already booked a hotel near Sun Yat-sen University. She personally picked them up from the airport and brought them to the hotel near her campus. The humid air of old Guangzhou carried a faint, distinctive scent. The heat reminded Mike of the climate on his island—oppressive yet strangely comforting. The familiarity caught him off guard.
After a simple lunch in the hotel, Chen Xiao let them rest before meeting again around two in the lounge. There, she gave them a brief overview of Guangzhou's historical layers before taking them to the Guangdong Provincial Archives.
"You're standing on what was once called Yangcheng," she said. "Back in the Qin and Han dynasties, it was the capital of the Nanyue Kingdom. By the late Qing and early Republican period, Guangzhou had become a hotbed of revolutionary thought and a battleground between old traditions and new ideas. There was constant upheaval, political power shifting hands, and many gentry families were either driven out or went bankrupt."
She paused, then looked at Jane.
"If the Mei mentioned in your letter was from Hui County, then that would be present-day Huizhou—once called Guishan County, later renamed Huiyang. She lived through the 1910s, right when the Qing dynasty fell, the Republic was founded, and warlords ruled in chaos. It was a time of violent social shifts, and for a woman born into a gentry family, her fate was often not her own."
Mike looked down, his eyes darkening.
George frowned slightly. "So her story wasn't unique."
Jane nodded, her tone tinged with sorrow. "It was the echo of an entire era."
"Exactly. That time was hard for everyone, but even harder for women. Let's go," Chen Xiao said.
At the Guangdong Provincial Archives, Chen Xiao explained that the collection included household records and hand-copied local gazetteers from the Republican era. She stood before a large wooden cabinet and carefully flipped open a yellowed volume of Guishan Gazetteer, circling a few characters with her finger.
"Look here—'Yan salt merchants'," she read aloud. "Based on what Jane sent me from the letter, Mei's family likely worked in this trade."
Jane leaned in, frowning. "What does that mean?"
"In eastern and northern Guangdong, salt wasn't produced directly," Chen Xiao explained. "Families had to rely on connections and middlemen to distribute sea salt from the coastal provinces. This was done through so-called 'yan salt merchants' who operated via guilds and silver payments. Families in this business had some social standing—gentry but not nobility."
"So not quite aristocrats, but still local elites?" Jane asked.
"Yes," Chen Xiao nodded, "and the more status they had, the more they obsessed over reputation. A daughter's marriage, her chastity—it all had to be tightly controlled."
As they spoke, an older scholar with graying hair approached. He introduced himself as Professor Song, a folklorist specializing in Cantonese clan culture. Clearly prearranged by Chen Xiao, he joined their group with a kind smile.
"If Mei was born around 1910," Professor Song said, flipping through his notebook, "then her upbringing was likely steeped in the late Qing rural gentry culture. Back then, village life in Guangdong revolved around ancestral halls. Women held no voice, no right to choose their path."
Jane tensed at his words.
"You mentioned she was sent to Hong Kong as a concubine, with a bridal sedan and musicians?" Professor Song mused. "That suggests this wasn't merely shame—it was a 'dignified transaction'. Her father was protecting the family's name. For a gentry family, marrying off a disgraced daughter to a merchant in grandeur served as a public bandage over private wounds."
George muttered, "Dignified desperation, more like."
Silence lingered in the air.
Jane lowered her gaze. "It just makes me want to meet her descendants even more. I hope someone from her family still lives there."
Later that afternoon, Professor Song suggested a trip to Yuexiu District. He knew a small restaurant run by an old Huizhou native who specialized in traditional Hakka dishes. "Sometimes a taste can stir memories—or even lead to new clues," he said.
"And there's someone else I want you to meet," he added with a smile. "Mr. Zhao, a producer from the Guangdong Film Company. He's a true son of old Guangzhou. Backpacking across China since the 1980s, he's got stories and connections galore. If anyone can help, it's him."
The five of them took a cab through the winding alleys of old Guangzhou. As they reached the shaded courtyard of the film company, the sun was beginning to dip. A massive banyan tree stood in the center of the yard, its roots twisted and ancient. Mike walked up to it and placed his hand on the trunk, feeling a strange, unspeakable sorrow rise within him.
Just then, a man in a khaki shirt and broad grin strode over with an outstretched hand. "Welcome! You must be Professor Song's special guests!"
"Mr. Zhao," said Professor Song, introducing him.
Zhao's gaze swept over the group, lingering momentarily on Mike. Then he clapped his hands and said cheerfully, "When I heard about your story, I said right away—it's got to be a film. Real, heartfelt, full of soul. Young man, once you return that letter to the girl's family, we must sit down and turn this into a real screenplay."
Jane translated with a chuckle. Mike smiled awkwardly and nodded.
Zhao barked out orders in rapid Cantonese to a nearby assistant, too fast for Jane to catch entirely. She leaned over and whispered to Mike, "He says he knows a history teacher from Huizhou who might help."
Zhao patted Professor Song's shoulder. "I'll skip dinner—got some film edits to handle. But you three, eat well. Mike, Jane, George—let's talk again soon. This story deserves to be told."
He shook hands with them one by one, his sincerity evident in the strength and clarity of his grip.
As Zhao disappeared into the building, Mike murmured to George, "There's something… really clean about his energy. Honest."
George smirked. "Agreed. A rare breed. Also—he's feeding us!"
Jane smiled and glanced at the banyan tree's gnarled roots. "This city's past still hides so many unfinished stories."
The restaurant sat at the far end of an alley in Yuexiu. Wooden windows, gray tiles, carved tables—its walls were lined with yellowed photos and handwritten menus. The owner, Mr. Liu, was in his sixties with snow-white hair and a spotless traditional shirt. When he saw Professor Song arrive with guests, he personally took charge in the kitchen.
They ordered six traditional Huizhou dishes: stuffed tofu, braised pork with preserved vegetables, salt-baked chicken, stuffed loofah, eel rice, and one dish made by Liu himself—mugwort rice cakes.
"These are made from wild mugwort picked on the hills of my hometown," Liu said, smiling as he brought the dish. "Young folks don't like this stuff anymore—green, mushy, weird texture. Just looking at it scares them."
True to form, Jane and George barely touched the cakes after a polite taste.
But when Mike took his first bite, he froze.
His body tensed. That taste pierced through his tongue and seemed to slice through time—hitting something buried deep in a memory that wasn't his, yet felt like home.
His eyes welled up.
He coughed and took a long sip of tea, casually wiping at his face.
No one said a word. The light on the table fell quietly across the dishes, as if witnessing something sacred.
After the meal, Mr. Liu sat and chatted with them. He recalled his grandfather telling stories about a grand salt merchant family in Huizhou—once lavish and powerful, with dozens of servants. Liu's great-uncle had worked as a steward in that household. But then came war, land reforms, the Cultural Revolution. The family's fortunes collapsed, their ancestral tombs destroyed, publicly denounced.
"Maybe the one you're looking for is tied to that family," Liu said with a sigh. "I'm not sure, but I do have an uncle who remembers things well. He still lives in an old Huizhou neighborhood. I'll write down his address."
Professor Song took the note with a firm nod.
"Looks like our next stop is Huizhou," Jane whispered.
Mike said nothing. He was still staring at the half-eaten mugwort cake in his hand. The flavor lingered, awakening something long frozen—now slowly beginning to thaw.