Born in 1912 in a scholarly family in the south of the Yangtze River, he often wore a white jade hairpin on his temples and always sat at the rosewood table under the carved windows of his old house to write letters. Her life is closely intertwined with the house of blue bricks and black tiles - in spring she watches the wind chimes on the eaves accompanied by the drizzle, in autumn she picks up fallen sycamore leaves in the patio, and during the war years she hid precious ancient books in the interlayer of wall tiles. When I returned home in my later years, my fingertips touched the mottled black tiles, and I could still clearly recall the old days when I was young and listened to my husband's lectures behind the Moon Gate. I was a witness to the changes in the old house over the past century, and a gentle watcher in the old days.
