Summer, 1988.
Rain falls hard outside a small house, drumming softly on the tin roof.
Inside, the room is quiet — a wooden bed with a bamboo mat, two old chairs resting on the floor. The window rattles as the wind blows through, making the white embroidered curtain dance in the dim light.
Two faded posters hang on the wall, edges curling with time. A tiny bookshelf holds a few books, their covers worn and yellowed.
It’s nothing special — just an ordinary room on a rainy afternoon.
But somehow, it feels like home. Like a memory you can almost touch.