Whenever it rains, I am transported back to my childhood in the countryside, where the downpours seemed to stretch on forever. I would sit in the spare room on the east side of my grandmother’s house, flipping through an old book and munching on dried apricots. The rhythmic patter of raindrops against the windowpane filled the air, punctuated by the occasional tinkling of sheep bells and the gurgle of rainwater into rubber buckets or tubs placed beneath the eaves.

The air on a rainy day was fresh and damp, carrying the earthy scent of cardboard boxes and grain sacks that mingled with the aroma of the vegetable garden and cow pen, somehow making it more comforting. My grandparents would usually doze off, while the old cat snoozed contentedly on the warm kang, the traditional brick bed. The entire countryside seemed to be enveloped in a peaceful slumber.

Alone in the house, I would soak in the tranquility and timelessness of the moment, feeling as if the whole world had stood still. My imagination would take me to an ancient, incense-filled temple, where a carefree, ageless sage, versed in history and magic, was engrossed in a mystical tome while nibbling on a steamed bun. That sage was me.

And so, as I drift off to sleep, accompanied by the sound of the rain, I am once again back in the countryside, in that ethereal world of my childhood.