I grew up in an era that seems, by today's standards, almost unimaginable. Our childhood textbooks reminded us — we who lived comfortably in Taiwan — never to forget that one day, we would return to the mainland and rescue our suffering compatriots across the strait. Among those pages, heavy with the colors of a one-party state, there was a story. One that never faded with time, but grew clearer with each passing year, quietly shaping the life that followed.

A slovenly man lived in a cluttered, neglected home. One day, a friend brought him a bouquet of flowers. Filled with joy, he went to find a vase — only to discover it was far too dirty to hold something so beautiful. So he washed it. He placed the flowers inside, then set the vase on the table — and noticed the table was covered in dust. So he wiped it clean. And so it went: from the table to the floor, from the floor to the ceiling, from the ceiling to the courtyard, until the entire home had been made new. Finally, he stood before a gleaming mirror — and saw a disheveled stranger staring back. So he washed himself, from head to toe, until he too could be worthy of that single, perfect bouquet.

The world is vast. Perhaps it begins in a corner —
letting beauty glow, illuminating one's own existence.