The story speaks through the house again. Last year, the typhoon, thunderstorms and strong winds slapped doors, windows and walls, washing away dust and dirt, and evoking the sleeping house. This story once filled the people in the house, leaving only a quiet monologue. This winter, the cold wind condensed the air, and the time sequence progressed. It was piled up on the outer wall of the house, like fossils wrapped and buried. I also imagined a story book, opened page by page, listening to him telling stories, inheriting the unforgettable memories of the transformation, It makes people feel unfinished.