Don’t they seem rather apathetic to you? Though I suppose it would be difficult for you to notice, seeing as you only come out after the shadows have chased away the last vestiges of sunlight. And besides, this city has never quite reclaimed its taste for nocturnal activities, even after we drove away that hideous plague. Do I dislike the sun? Not in the slightest. He is a perfectly affable fellow, if not a bit too enthusiastic at times. Though I am simply too busy during the day to enjoy his company. The hourly chimes affect my constitution, and frankly speaking, I do not know why they bothered giving me this soulless mechanical voice. For what use is a timekeeper in this day and age? They don’t even wear watches anymore.

Oh please, madam, why do you look at me so? There is something in your countenance that puzzles me. Do I detect a faint hint of pity? Nonsense, I am most certainly not feeling maudlin, but the night is still, and tranquillity encourages reflection. So perhaps, I will admit to being stirred by nostalgia. Do you recall me in my youth? So full of vigour and vitality. How I would chime every quarter of the hour and never tire. Good heavens, has it really been more than a hundred years? Oh, how the years conspire against us all, and yet here you are, looking every bit as radiant as whence I first laid eyes upon you that starless spring night. Back when I had purpose, when I was whole. When I was master timekeeper of the marvellous Kowloon Railway Station.

Did you know how slow service had been in those early years? Just a few trains a day, carrying businessmen looking to ply their trade or settlers seeking greener pastures. What courage that must have taken. To leave the familiarity of hearth and home and venture into foreign lands. Perhaps many of them had regarded me as a representation of this city, welcoming travellers as the Colossus did for those who sought passage into Rhodes. Oh, tease me not, dear madam, and do not judge me by my current appearance. I may not be as tall as the Colossus, but was I not quite the dashing gentleman back then? Sometimes on a cool autumn morning, they would stop and admire these magnificent granite columns and these bricks, red like fresh cinnamon bark. Standing tall at fifty-one metres, I loomed over them, towered over them, and yet, they would show no fear. Not even the children, and often they kept their eyes on me as they passed by, and I could see the longing in the reflection of their eyes. I took pleasure in watching them, the children in particular, and I wondered if they would find contentment in their newfound home. In fact, I was touched by the way they would rely on me to tell them the time of day in what was surely a period of great uncertainty in their lives. I grew to love them, and because of that, I grew to love the duty of my station. We had not yet been closely acquainted then, you and I, for I toiled throughout all hours of day and night. Truth be told, despite the never-ending nature of my labour, I did not mind it in the slightest. It is a pleasure to possess purpose. I felt content. And then, that blasted war.

What an utterly revolting affair.

This War of Resistance.

I bore witness to such depravities and came to understand humanity’s boundless capacity for cruelty. These scars of mine, pockmarks kissed by searing hot lead; a reminder of their innate talent for wanton destruction. And as quickly as my love for them grew, so too did my discomfort and disillusionment. How did I appear to you then, dear madam? Drabbed in a coat of dreary grey, brought low, silenced, humiliated. I apologise if I had frightened you during that dreadful time. I myself had felt absolutely dreadful.

After the war ended, my voice was returned to me and I resumed my duties, but nothing felt the same. I did not feel the same. Had I been irrevocably warped by my experiences? My booming voice reached far and wide, echoing across the harbour, and yet, the sound felt empty, as if conviction was lacking. Did they perceive my creeping anxieties and deem me unfit for my duties? I was made silent once again on a rainy evening in March. Cogs and motors no longer synchronised, my deep fears had been realised. And then, they ordered my execution. Though I had failed in my duties, I still felt bitter resentment. It stung, to be discarded so callously like worthless rubble. I, who had witnessed the humble beginnings of this city, for whom I had served to the best of my abilities. I had no voice, and yet, I felt the unrelenting impulse to scream. Some of them rallied for me and petitioned for my survival. Their pleas were heard and summarily ignored. My identity and purpose, unceremoniously stripped away from me, red brick walls torn down, great granite columns knocked over, railroad tracks exorcised from the earth. Did I weep, dear madam? You wouldn’t have heard me, but perhaps you had seen me shed tears. For myself and for the dashed hopes of those who had come to my aid.

In failing myself, I felt as if I had failed them.

I would like you to know, dear madam, that through my many years of silence, your presence sustained me. You gave me some semblance of calm as I wallowed away the hours and days, contemplating my altered existence. Perhaps I am being unfair to the sun, as I have said he is a perfectly affable fellow, but there are too many distractions during the day. Travellers come up to me and take pictures as if I were a paraded animal. They declared me a monument. I chuckled when I heard. I am a relic of a bygone era existing in the liminal space between antiquity and the modern world. For what do I commemorate in a city so eager to erase its history and heritage, ostensibly in the name of progress? I hear them in the dead of night. Faint rumblings beneath the earth. Ghostly vibrations. Trains racing towards the void.

A product of my imagination? Had I allowed my mind to wander too far?

The most peculiar thing occurred several years ago. Clad in black, touting flags and banners, singing and chanting before marching off to some unknown destination. I looked at them; I looked at the reflection of their eyes and I couldn’t decide exactly what it was that I saw. It was not unlike the longing I saw in those children all those years ago, but perhaps tinted with a hint of desperation. They gathered around me again and again, before marching off to an uncharted future, and each time the desperation in their eyes grew. Symbolism is not my business. I have my pleasures, though they are fewer as the years go by. I had a purpose, though I had lost it. And, incapable as I may be, I will not have this responsibility entrusted to me. I will not be made into their icon.

They are gone now, replaced once again by the jolly traveller touting cameras and shopping bags. The desperation, however, still lingers. I can hear them, dear moon. Like phantom whispers, they ring silently as my new mechanical voice does. This mechanical voice that operates on its own accord throughout the day; a simulacrum that, at the very least ceases its infernal ringing at midnight. The whispers are undying. In my anguish, I make my plea to you, dear moon, in a voice that is not my own. You, who are purity and eternity made manifest. Oh, moon up high, in the starless sky, deliver me. Deliver me.