A month ago, news came from my father: the old house that used to accompany me when I was young was demolished.Presumably he must have discussed it with my mother before deciding to tell me.They moved out of that house a few years ago, and now they are spending the rest of their lives leisurely in a villa near the beach, which is what we usually call retirement. The letter not only states the date of demolition of the house, but also specifies the approximate time when the demolition will start.Maybe they still expect me to go back to that old house again before this time of the day. However, I may have to live up to their expectations.Of course it wasn't because I didn't want to meet them, anyway, they were also my parents, and it didn't make sense for me to refuse them.I'm just afraid that maybe there will be some memories beyond my imagination in that old house.

On the day the old house was demolished, I was at home listening to music and reading books to pass the time. I didn't want to go out because I was afraid of meeting other people. However, even if I pretend to read books and listen to music, all I can think about is the old house: the room I stayed in when I was reviewing for the exam, the room where everyone sat around the fireplace and watched TV, The kitchen, the closet, the hallway, and the dark storage room where I peeked while carrying a schoolbag and guessing what to have for dinner tonight. The scene when the house was demolished came to mind: the walls were smashed, the floor was punctured, and the pillars were broken.On the pillar, there may still be the old wall clock that is slow by five minutes a month; on the wall, there may also be the wall calendar with the name of the newspaper printed on it of an unknown year.In the back corridor, there must still be a burn mark about three centimeters in diameter.It was scorched with a convex lens when I was a primary school student, and my eardrum was almost shattered by my father scolding me for this incident.

Repeating similar random thoughts, the impression is almost erased, and there are still some yellowed memory fragments left. Speaking of home, I have another home that I will never forget. Different from the purely Japanese-style house I was born in, it was an exotic white house standing quietly on a deserted mountain. The thought of that house still haunts me to this day.Unspeakable fear tangled in his chest.When a person sleeps in bed, he even puts the quilt over his head. But there is another emotion similar to nostalgia coming to me, and it seems that I still feel it calling me. However, I will never step there again. I know that this is for my own good.

I went to the White House once with a woman in search of something.It's just that neither she nor I knew what we were looking for, it was just a vague hunch that there might be something to be gained there, and that got us on this journey. I still don't know if this is right or wrong. That was two years ago.