Chao Yuen

I have been working at the port of Haikou on Hainan Island for several years. The Chinese Hawaii. Every day, I see passengers disembark, their faces filled with excitement or exhaustion. My job is to ensure smooth operations—guiding ships, inspecting seating areas, and clearing what people leave behind.

Yesterday, during my walkthrough, I found a cell phone on a seat near the window. It had enough battery left, and while I couldn’t unlock it, I managed to call the last dialed number. A woman answered, relieved when I told her about the phone. We arranged to meet at the harbor.

When she arrived with the phone’s owner, I was struck by her presence. She had an effortless warmth, a smile that felt familiar. She insisted on giving me money, but I refused. As we talked, we discovered we were from the same hometown and even knew some of the same people.

“You must know Li Wei,” she laughed. “He was the fastest runner in school.”

I did know him. We used to race along the beach as kids, daring each other into the waves. The memory made me smile.

On impulse, she invited me to dinner. I could have said no. But I didn’t.

We ate at a small seafood place by the water. The chairs wobbled, but the fish was fresh. Conversation flowed easily. She lived in Guangzhou, China, now, just visiting Hainan for a short break.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said. “You go years without seeing someone from home, and then suddenly, life just places them in your path.”

I nodded. Some coincidences feel too precise to be random.

After dinner, we exchanged numbers. A small gesture, yet it carried weight.

Now, a day later, I find myself glancing at my phone, waiting for a message that hasn’t come. Maybe she’s busy, maybe she’s already back on the mainland.

I don’t know if I’ll see her again, but something about the encounter lingers. Some meetings leave a mark, even if their meaning isn’t clear yet.