Old House
More than twenty years later, I returned to my ancestral home. I pushed open the door, then stopped. It wasn't really mine anymore.
A family I didn't know lived there. They moved through rooms I knew by heart. The same crack on the third floor, the same light coming through the east window... but with laundry hanging in the yard, still damp.
On the kitchen counter, there were pickled vegetables, still glistening. On the altar, candied kumquats and incense. Bowls of cold porridge. The floor felt slightly sticky underfoot.
The worn wooden furniture still bore traces of oil and grease. The walls seemed to have absorbed everything.
I remembered standing there as a child, at the entrance, a strawberry lollipop in hand, watching the red embers of the incense sticks. Back then, I thought the gods smelled of sugar and smoke.
Later, I understood. And I stopped leaving them.
A man came out, wiping his hands on his apron. He looked at me, surprised.
"Did you come for the demolition?"
I shook my head.
"No. Just to see."
He nodded slowly. As if he had heard that before.
"Yes... the house is still here. The same beams. The same tiles. The same slightly crooked stairs. But..."
He hesitated.
"...it's not really the same anymore."
