I want to grow old. We would live in a small and narrow wooden house. The wooden house would have a few holes here and there, and a locust tree would slowly grow through the cracks over the years. A shadow would cover the window frame, and mothballs and moss would sprout in the night. I would wear a gaudy outer robe, curl my black hair into waves, and make my way down to the public kitchens to make his meals. When the oil began the sizzle, I would begin by scattering the chopped onion slices into the pot. The passersby would ask: whose house made such fragrant dishes? Of course, it would be our house. A-Chen and Shui Miao’s house.