Some places live in memories, not just for what they are, but for what they represent. Hung Hom, the southeastern corner of Yau Tsim Mong District, Hong Kong, where I once lived, is one of those places - a district where the pulse of the city beats between two seemingly opposite worlds.
When it comes to Hung Hom, most people will think of a famous landmark, the Hong Kong Coliseum, known as the “Red Pavilion”, where the city’s biggest stars shone their brightest before the inevitable final curtain call. The glowsticks, the roaring applause, the encore chants—it’s a ritual of love, a collective memory shared by thousands. It was here that I witnessed singers tell stories through their voices, where the city sang in unison, where I felt what it meant to belong to something greater than myself. And then there was the encore—the moment when the lights dimmed, the stage went dark, but the audience refused to leave. We clapped, we chanted, we begged for just one more song. Most times, the singers returned, giving us a final gift. Sometimes, they didn’t, and we were left standing there, unwilling to accept that it was truly over.
But some goodbyes at the Red Pavilion have carried a deeper weight than a normal encore, belting out the last chorus of a song that defined an era. When Leslie Cheung sang "The Wind Continue to Blow" here for the last time, did he already sense the wind carrying him elsewhere? When Anita Mui stood on this stage in her iconic wedding dress, bidding farewell to the audience in her “final concert,” did she know she would never return for an encore? The stage, once filled with glittering costumes and laughter, is also a place where legends take their final bows.
Countless nights, I strolled from Red Pavilion back home, letting the gentle breeze touch my face and the lyrics linger in my mind. Just a short walk, past the bustling station and construction sites, where white mourning banners replace neon lights and the sound of screaming fans fades into the murmurs of last rites, lies a street few talk about unless they need to - that’s where my apartment was. Bulkeley Street, also called the funeral street, is a quiet stretch lined with coffin shops and funeral parlors, where families quietly make arrangements for their loved ones.
To some, this street is taboo—a place avoided out of superstition. But to me and many others, it is an ordinary yet essential part of life. The shopkeepers nodded as I passed, their hands skillfully folding papers to burn as offerings for the afterlife—gold ingots, mahjong tables, even entire mansions meant for the afterlife. There was a quiet rhythm here, a respect for endings, a business that never stopped but never sought attention, bridging the living and the departed and performing the last dance.
Hung Hom is where the city celebrates and mourns, where endings are never quite the end. In this space, between dazzling spotlights and solemn farewells, between the encore and the last dance, lies a story of Hong Kong itself. Just as every concert has an encore, every farewell in this city lingers. The voices of those who sang in the Red Pavilion are still heard in the echoes of jukeboxes and late-night taxi radios. The loved ones who departed from Funeral Street remain in the offerings left at temples and the stories told at family dinners.
In many ways, Hung Hom reflected the nature of Hong Kong itself - a city constantly caught between holding on and letting go. Dancing between its past and future, saying goodbye while waiting for the next curtain call. Hung Hom, standing at this crossroads, reminds us that in this city, no farewell is ever truly final. There is always another song, another story, another encore.
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