When I was born, everyone in the village said that I would not survive the first seven years of my life.
My mother was seriously ill and gave birth prematurely when she was seven months pregnant with me. I weighed less than four pounds and cried like a cat meowing. But that night, a white porcelain lamp was lit in front of the seventy-two doors in the village.
No one knew who lit the lamp, and no one dared to blow it. Because it is not a lamp to illuminate the way for the living, but a lamp for the dead to recognize their door.
Since then, I have been frail and sickly, but I can see things that others cannot.
When I was twenty-four years old, I saw that white porcelain lamp again in the mourning hall of a family.
The paper man under the lamp turned his head and called out my mother's name.
