Loss

Pushing open the glass door, the brass bell above gave a soft chime. Du An followed the other three inside. The shop was not particularly large, but it was neat and tidy, with three or four customers already browsing slowly before the shelves. The entire shop was bathed in a deep, rich red, steeped in the presence of Liverpool everywhere you looked. Wooden shelves were neatly stacked with red scarves, knit beanies, and T-shirts bearing the Liverpool crest. Inside a glass display case on the top shelf rested a yellowed football, densely covered with autographs from the entire Liverpool squad. Beside it stood a small plaque noting that it was a team-signed ball from the 1988/89 season. Yet far more striking than the football memorabilia were the omnipresent marks of Hillsborough. The entire wall directly facing the entrance was covered in black-and-white photographs—rows of faces neatly arranged, some young, some weathered by time. There were young men in football jerseys, fathers cradling their children, fathers and sons standing shoulder to shoulder... Ninety-six lives, frozen forever in April 1989. Above the photo wall, bold white lettering read: *Justice for the 96*. Various slogans covered the adjacent walls. Among them, one stood out prominently: "Boycott The Sun! Don't pay for lies!" Du An's gaze lingered on the photographs, his steps slowing involuntarily. He instinctively wondered whether Grandma Mason's husband—the grandfather he had never met—and his uncles were among those faces. Yet Du An could not tell which ones they were. Grandma Mason had destroyed every photograph of them. Du An's heart sank heavier and heavier. Walking beside him, Dalglish noticed the change in him. He said nothing, only reaching out to gently pat his shoulder. "Kenny, you're here." A lean, gray-haired man stepped out from behind the counter with a warm smile on his face. His eyes fell on Du An and Ethan. "These must be Old John's grandsons?" Dalglish nodded and introduced them. "Dunn Murrleson, one of the founders of the HJC. He's the one who got this shop running. And this is Du An Scott, and his younger brother, Ethan Scott." Dunn stepped forward, opening his arms to gently embrace both brothers. His shoulders were lean, but the hug was firm and strong. "You boys have been through so much. Don't you worry—we won't let the truth stay buried forever. All these years, we've been investigating and appealing, and we won't stop until the government opens up every single file on Hillsborough. "More and more people are standing with us now. Andy Burnham, the Labour MP, has been pushing in Parliament for a second inquiry, and so many folks are signing petitions. "We did nothing wrong. The ones at fault are David Duckenfield, Mackrell and those negligent police officers, and the media that spouted nothing but lies." Du An looked at the light in Dunn's eyes. He nodded earnestly. "Thank you. We'll be waiting for that day." Dalglish took over then, turning to the matter at hand. "Du An has joined the Kirkby youth academy now, so he has his weekends free. I was hoping he could come here to do some odd jobs and lend a hand. Would that work for you?" "Of course it works! He's more than welcome," Dunn agreed at once, looking at Du An. "He can start today and see how it goes—get a feel for the place first." Dalglish smiled and patted Du An's arm. "Then we'll be off. We'll pick you up this afternoon. Take your time and learn the ropes from Uncle Dunn." With that, he turned to leave with Paul and Ethan. Bringing Du An here was not just about earning a bit of pocket money; it was also Heighway's idea to help Du An truly step into Liverpool's community and feel the warmth of this city beyond football—to gradually come to understand what this club, and this city, truly meant. After the three departed, Dunn called toward the back of the counter, "Sarah, come here for a moment." A girl with long, light-brown hair stepped out from behind the shelves. She looked to be in her early twenties, bright and youthful. "This is Du An Scott. He'll be working part-time here on weekends, so show him the ropes," Dunn introduced briefly. "Du An is from a victim's family as well, and he plays at the Kirkby youth academy." He then said to Du An, "This is Sarah. Her father stayed behind at Hillsborough that day too." Sarah gave Du An a slight nod. "Follow me. We'll start by sorting stock." She led Du An to a workbench in the corner and handed him a cardboard box that reached halfway up his chest. It was packed with silicone memorial wristbands in red and black, stamped with "96" and "Truth." "Sort them by color and size—small, medium, and large—and then place them in the corresponding slots on the shelves." Du An took the box, sat down, and threw himself into the work. To him, this was a job, and it had to be done properly. The repetitive mechanical motion helped ease his tension; the heavy weight he had felt upon walking in gradually loosened as he sorted through band after band. As he worked, the brass bell by the door chimed softly, and an elderly woman with white hair walked in. She wore a navy coat and carried a cloth bag in her hand. She walked up to the counter and pointed to a round commemorative badge in the glass display case. "Could I have one of these, please?" Her eyes drifted past the workbench, meeting Du An's as he sorted the wristbands, and she gave him a kind smile. "A new clerk? So young." Du An smiled back. Sarah walked over, picked up the pin badge, and smiled as she pinned it to the woman's lapel. "He's helping out on weekends. His name is Du An." The old woman's gaze came to rest on an old photograph on the wall behind the counter—a young man in a Liverpool jersey, smiling brightly. She let out a soft sigh. "Sarah, if your dad were still here, he'd be fifty this year. He never would have imagined that the little girl always sniffling behind him would grow up to become the guardian of this shop." "If he knew, I'm sure he'd be happy." Sarah's eyes crinkled into a radiant smile, and she reached out to gently squeeze the old woman's hand. The woman paid and walked out. Sarah turned back to tidying the counter and noticed Du An looking at her. She did not look away, nor did she seem overwhelmed by grief. Still straightening up the counter, she spoke in a very calm voice. "My dad took me to Sheffield to watch the match that day. I was six. Whenever we watched football, he loved putting me up on his shoulders, saying I'd get a better view like that. Later, the crowd surged, and I was knocked down. He pushed me up onto the barrier with all his might, and people on the other side pulled me out. But he never made it out himself." She paused for a brief moment, then quickly continued. "I do all this here because I want to carry on what he couldn't finish. He took me that day because he wanted to make me happy. I can't let that one day steal away all the happiness in my life." With that, she lowered her head and went back to work, saying no more. Du An did not press her. He bent his head back down to sort the wristbands. He had never seen how others dealt with loss; the only response he had ever known was his grandmother's extremity. This was the first time he had heard someone speak of loss like this—not drowning in agony, but turning hardship into the strength to move forward. To take a shattered life and mend it, piece by piece. Tracing the raised numbers "96" on a wristband, Du An suddenly felt that this modest little shop held something far heavier than football.