“The Fire in Tai Po is still ongoing.”

When I had got home (the phrase “getting back home” has become lost, written on social media afterwards by a resident who escaped after hours of being trapped in his home), Dad just laid it out: “The Fire in Tai Po is still ongoing.” I gave a “yea”.

Keeping his eyes on the TV, he told me my dinner might have gone cold already and was saved on the kitchen table. I put the disposable bamboo chopsticks on top of the foam container. When I carried them out to the living room, my hand held them together tightly so that the chopsticks would not roll and fall to the floor.

The reporter was relaying the updated number of people missing at that time, and my dad scooted aside on the sofa to let me sit and said, “So many hours lah. Most likely won’t be found gah lah.” I opened the lid. It was char siu rice. There were four to five pieces of char siu.

“Can’t find my Popo ah…” the child of about eight to ten years old was crying to the camera. I looked down to take in a piece of char siu. Then (I wish I were mixing up my memories), the reporter asked, stupidly, “Where is your Popo?” The child answered, “I don’t know…” I scooped some rice into my mouth. Then, char siu. Then, rice. Char siu. Rice… Until they all went inside my body, bearing witness as I withdrew to my room.

When did you first hear of it? Where were you? Naturally, I scroll a few months backwards on my calendar app trying to answer my inquiry. But the schedule only remembers my weekly lecture on that night. I don’t blame the schedule. How could it have known the unexpected?

I opened Instagram, the doors closed, and I found my homepage engulfed in fire.

That night, after the lecture, I said goodbye to my friends and boarded the train at the University station, going in the direction of Admiralty. Before the train set into motion, I was (I have only realised now) at my closest to the fire that night. The lecture had ended earlier, so I didn’t wonder where the people who usually crowded the train carriage had gone. I opened Instagram, the doors closed, and I found my homepage engulfed in fire.

Four people died, seven were injured, and around two hundred were missing. These were the numbers I probably first saw (according to the timeline shown on a website). The class ended earlier at eight thirty. Still, there’s a time lag between me and the tragedy. And the blame is on me. My phone settings had turned off immediate notifications from news apps for a few years. I knew the safety procedure, for myself.

I put my phone away in my backpack. I knew I was not the one in danger but I needed a safe space for taking in all of this. The train was shaky, a little more than usual. Maybe it was unsure whether it should go in the opposite direction that night. Naturally, it stayed its course. I don’t blame the train. It is, after all, a train being driven on a daily routine. Its derailing would be another disaster, unlike me, who can turn around at any time. I watched the doors closing again, at another station, and continued to let it take me home.

The door into my room closed behind me and the light turned on, not by themselves, naturally, but by my muscle memory. My room looked as usual, and sounded as usual, like all the nights before.

I opened Instagram again and began to scroll the page. I am sure you know this: social media is so different from TV news. You can see and hear without a narrator reporting and questioning. Children are already crying there. You can see, as if through those residents’ perspectives, but of course, never the ways they experienced it.

The image of being inside the burning flat was still in my mind’s eye, with fire burning around.

People were recounting how they had escaped or witnessed their burning home. Among those, there was this screenshot of a WhatsApp conversation between a young man and his loved ones. “The fire has finally come, goodbye, everyone.” Above the farewell message was a photo taken by him inside his home, framed in a mist of greyness, shadowing the colourfully decorated living room, and only fire was visible through the window frame. At that point, I had already watched for almost an hour and must have been mixing up these first-person photos and videos. Looking at his motionless photo, I could hear the fire outside the window crackling, unwavering. My hands immediately locked the phone and thrust it into the nearest drawer. But even with the screen gone, the image of being inside the burning flat was still in my mind’s eye, with fire burning around. And I found my body unharmed, my flat quiet, lacking any burning sounds. My eyes could not see what my mind was visualising. Like I was not supposed to be breathing in my home. Like the Fire was just on social media.

All the lights were turned off by my hands. Afraid that the light might brighten the room. Maybe because I felt I should not be able to see my furniture and belongings so clearly, without any obstruction of smoke. I did not know if I should open my eyes or close them. I just wanted to feel better, for myself.

The Fire was reported to have begun at around 15:00. This is part of the ordered, organised timeline now visible on news outlet websites, or websites made by good-hearted people to record, continuously still today, everything related to the Fire. It feels so clear. More things are known now.

That young man said on social media later that he got out safely. Many did not, though. And their full experience can never be condensed into the objective world. The official timeline would also never know my experience, maybe because they are too unrelated. So, when the investigation now discloses that all seven fire alarm systems had been turned off on the day of the Fire, I wonder whether I should check my alarm systems too, perhaps finding them stuck between on and off. But if I carry out an investigation into my experience of an incident during which I was not present, is that selfish?

But I know I can never chase back the time lag.

At any rate, it was all four months ago. I don’t remember how the rest of the night went for me (I probably did something to soothe myself). But I know I can never chase back the time lag. I took the train going in the opposite direction. I got home that night. I ate as the child cried. I watched the young man’s photo. My room was quiet, I was safe. And I have dropped the idea of scrolling back through the calendar to put all of this into that night, because they are the unexpected. They would always only belong to the personal, to our remembrance.

^{How to cite: Chan, Sam Yu Wing. “Alibi.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 24 May 2026, chajournal.com/2026/05/24/alibi.}

Sam Yu Wing Chan is from and lives in Hong Kong. He holds a BA in English from Hong Kong Baptist University and is currently pursuing an MA in English Literary Studies at The Chinese University of Hong Kong. Sam’s research interests include representations of individual memory within grand narratives, historical fiction, science fiction, and magical realism. He is particularly interested in Hong Kong Anglophone fiction and life writing, and is currently working towards publishing more of his creative work.