When I was a child, I often see you lying here on a lazy afternoon, with a pocketbook in your hand and your graded glasses. This room has been my hiding place when I'm too conscious to meet some relatives and you allow me. I have all the access to your things. From your books, to DVDs, to your hidden money. Years later, this bed, this frame, became the living witness of all your pain, sorrows, mournings, sadness, longing, and anticipated death. Days before you were gone, I often see you lying here (because you were too weak to even stand at all) watching cooking shows with your tablet in the middle of the night. And when I pass your doorstep, you'll look at me with your sad eyes. And I'll just smile at you to tell you everything's gonna be alright, even when I'm not really sure if everything will be alright. I laid here with you while holding your hand, the day you bid me goodbye in my dreams. And even after you were gone, I can still see you lying here. I even mistaken that familiar sound from your table when I pass by your room in the middle of the night, as if you were still there. Lolo, I miss you so much. It's been more than a year and I still feel like you were here. Your memory in my head is still alive. You're still alive in my dreams. I miss you.