I drove back to the old house with my father that day.

It has a mere history of about 12 years, and the count's not going up anymore. Soon, the house will become pave stones for new realty projects. Demolished and grinded to dust, to put it in a more explicit way.

My father was a construction project manager, and this 3-story building was definitely the crown jewel, among all of his masterpieces that he takes pride in. To design, build and reside in his own creations is such a glorious achievement to his heart's content, only him himself could fully enjoy the satisfaction.

But look at it now. Seen from a distance, it mostly resembles a hollow, chilling ghost house located in a deserted suburb area. It was supposed to be a cozy getaway from the city life, but with most of the surrounding buildings gone and all the trashes and rubbles lying around, it seems like the decrepit tombstone now has one foot set in the grave.

The wind blew. A few remaining trees in the yard shook and made shuffling noises as if the house was hissing in the cold.

Vacated long ago, our only neighbor decided to help us clean up and live within the house shortly before they move out. My father, nearly enraged from the reimbursement contract, had fiercely resisted the demolishing arrangements. The realty project agencies' avarice was too obvious and it is my duty to help take the fight head-on, after all those fruitless negotiations.

But this is my little sanctuary, too. My parents had divorced long ago, therefore the suburb villa only stored me and my father's sweet, if not at all lonely, living memories.

A living room, with the size of a ballroom. Two dusty crystal lamps could not light up the black mold that dripped from the ceiling. Often times, my father would host a family party and even cook a full meal for a dozen family members. That was the earlier times, however, because the damp atmosphere did nurture not only the creepy molds, but also my father's arthritis. Now there is only me staring at the wall, and the wall staring back at me.

My bedroom, among all five of them, is the quietest one. It has twice the room of my current bedroom, but I was too young to appreciate the vastness. Shaded from most sunshine thanks to the backyard garden, I have to admit I liked the place. Noises produced by cicadas were too weak to penetrate the utter silence within the room, and I always preferred to be left alone to collect my thoughts.

A terrace, connected with the rooftop. Some of the merits of living with a rooftop are, at summer times you could lie down and seek the stars, and at winter times you could enjoy a playground full of snow. Everyone could use a moment of relief in a place like this, whereas you can lean against the bars and watch the sky unhindered.

But reality is the villain that destroys dreams and makes memories eternal. Soon, the house will be empty again and be left alone to gaze at the dusk. A home without its purpose, a husk without a soul. To us, it's about moving on up and waving goodbye to a decade of the past. To them, it's just a stinking fuss that they try to get their hands off with a minimal amount of money to pay.

There were more rooms to pay memorial to, but I figured it was meaningless. For me, I could easily immerse myself and spend days just to realize how times would come and pass. Often times, people would not realize when the last time to say goodbye will be, and that last time would be too casual to remember. But when someone or something's time comes and people are forced to dig up their memory, that's when the irreversible pain sets in. I have learned the lesson too dearly, and that's why I'd rather write something about it. 

Maybe this time would not be the last time, maybe there will be many next times. For the time being, I had to go. But I was not letting it go.

其实写出来才发现自己笔力还远远不足，分几次写完写得也很乱，也不知道会有多少人看得到。