"I don't know why it was me who found the bottle. But somehow, I feel this journey was destined." —Mike, Island Journal, p.305
—
Night had fallen. The cabin lay in silence. Outside, waves rolled ashore and receded quietly, whispering some ancient language only the sea could speak.
Jane sat alone at the bedside, all five pages of the letter spread before her. The lamp cast a slanted glow over the yellowed paper, the ink faded by seawater, giving the script a weathered dignity.
She furrowed her brow slightly, fingers brushing the worn edges of the text. These words felt like echoes from two separate worlds—intertwined, yet divided by an unseen seam. A quiet ache stirred in her chest: this wasn't a single letter. These were the imprints of two moments in time, where Mei crossed paths with fate.
She picked up the final page and began reading aloud:
"Mama, the master just told me that the situation is too chaotic—there's no one he can find to deliver this letter.
Who would've thought that our parting last year would be the final goodbye between mother and daughter? I am unfilial. The gratitude I owe you in this life, I can only repay in the next.
Thank you for raising me, and for convincing Father to let me learn to read and write. Being able to write this letter brings me great comfort.
The master says we must leave for the dock tonight and shouldn't bring much.
But truly, what do I have to bring? Only the gold bracelet you slipped onto my wrist on my wedding night, so I could feel you were always by my side.
I hope the war hasn't reached you and Father yet. I wish you both peace in your old age.
I still remember this time last year, you took me to the Guanyin Temple in town—said it was the most spiritual temple in Huixian.
You drew a divination slip for me. It was a top fortune—an auspicious sign of love.
Looking back now, it feels like a cruel joke. If this was the so-called top match, then what slip would I have drawn had I truly eloped with Ashun?
—February, 1918, Mei"
Jane's eyes welled up as she read the last line.
She finally understood—the five pages were, in fact, two letters written at different times. The first, a final farewell written just before the shipwreck, when Mei thought death was certain. The others were a heartfelt letter to her mother, prepared earlier but never sent due to war and unrest.
Jane folded the pages gently and held them to her chest, lost in thought.
How the bottle had crossed a century to reach this island, she didn't know. But one thing she did know—it was no accident.
It was destiny.
—
The next morning, the breeze was still cool, and the sky had just begun to glow gold.
Jane shared her realization with Mike and George. The three of them sat on the wooden steps outside the cabin, wrapped in silence.
"It wasn't one letter—it was two," Jane said. "She stuffed both a farewell and a family letter into the same bottle… maybe because she knew she might never see her mother again."
George nodded, eyes fixed on the sea. "That emotional contrast—the desperation, then the tenderness—it's the same duality I've seen in soldiers' letters during wartime."
They all sat quiet for a long time.
Finally, Mike spoke. "I couldn't stop thinking about it last night… What if Mei survived? Maybe she drifted somewhere. Maybe the ship never sank. Maybe she's still out there somewhere in this world."
He paused, staring at the letter like it was a riddle carved by fate. "Maybe this letter found me because she wanted to tell me she's still alive."
George chuckled. "Alive? She was sixteen in 1918. She'd be 111 now. Who lives that long?"
Mike didn't argue. "But the letter reached me after a hundred years—wasn't that a miracle?"
"Let's not get caught up in fantasy," Jane said firmly. "What matters now is where we start."
George stroked his chin. "1918—post-war China was a mess. Wealthy families fleeing Hong Kong via Southeast Asia to America wasn't unusual. If Lin had gold shops, maybe we'll find traces in archives, business guilds, churches. We could start in Hong Kong."
Mike added, "She also mentioned her mother taking her to the most spiritual Guanyin temple in Huixian. If we can locate that temple, maybe it'll help us narrow down her hometown."
"Wait!" Jane's eyes lit up. "I have a distant cousin in Guangzhou—she's a professor specializing in local folklore. She might be able to help us!"
She hurried inside to grab her phone. The breeze caught the curtain, and her silhouette carried a hopeful lightness.
George watched her with a quiet smile.
Mike looked toward the clouds. "I can't believe this—we're actually going to China."
George laughed. "If we find Mei's family, this story could be a novel."
Waves hit the shore in the distance—a deep, rhythmic echo, like a long-sleeping fate beginning to stir.
Jane returned, barely able to contain her excitement.
George asked, "Well? Don't keep us hanging."
Jane turned to Mike. "My cousin teaches modern Chinese history. She knows people at the national archive. When I told her about the bottle and the 1918 letter, she was more excited than I was. She said this letter is a historical relic—and she's promised to help us find Mei's family."
George clapped his hands. "This is better than a movie script! So when do we leave?"
Mike didn't answer right away. He stood, walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it in one gulp. Then he said quietly, "I haven't left this island in nine years. To be honest… I don't even know what to say. Jane, thank you. We'll be counting on your cousin. Are we meeting her first?"
Jane smiled. "Counting on me? Please. I should be the one thanking you. The three of us—we're not just delivering a letter. We're preserving history. If we can find Mei's family, it won't just be a miracle. It'll be the purpose of a lifetime."
She added, "My cousin said there's a hotel right near her university. Walking distance from her office. She's already made the reservation. All we need to do now… is book the flight."
—End of Chapter 8—