The sunlight there was so beautiful and moving.

 　　With the holiday on, life seemed to relax. I gazed at the sun's bright luster, as if trying to discern its interwoven, dazzling colors, chasing its imperceptible flow.

　　Leaning back in a soft chair was not only luxurious, but perhaps even a transgression—the transgression of leisure. But Su Shi's defense, "The lazy often appear still, but is stillness merely the laziness of the lazy," is not without reason.

　　Let's call it a small emotional journey; not going is fine, but going might be better. Ultimately, what do we truly cherish most in this world? Do we truly cherish the activities of humankind, the most intelligent of all beings, and the so-called human culture? And what exactly does this human culture rely on?

　　Here I must mention the first ray of sunshine I encountered. I was six years old that year, I remember it was right after I had chickenpox—the common varicella, though in my hometown we call it "water droplets." At the time, I loved that beautiful name, forgetting it was an illness, and thus felt a mysterious pride. For this reason, I still remember the luxurious joy I felt during my illness. As with many other illnesses, this time I was confined alone in a room to recuperate. A small courtyard was surrounded by white walls, with three rooms in a row on the north side, sandwiching an open hall in the middle. I was sick in my mother's bedroom at the east end. My aunt's room was at the west end. My mother and aunt always had to perform their duties as women in my grandmother's front yard, so I was often the only one left in those three rooms.

　　Being sick in those three rooms was an unbearable experience. Time passed especially slowly, particularly during the sleepless hours of the day. I would often tiptoe along the wooden bed to the door. The door was slightly ajar, facing the hall, and I would lean against the frame, peering out curiously.

　　It was probably just past two in the afternoon, and a square table, just used for a meal, stood forlornly in the center. A patch of sunlight, streaming in from the hallway, cascaded softly beneath it. An absolute stillness surrounded me, accompanied by a silent, shimmering golden light. For some reason, this stirred an unusual tremor within my six-year-old heart.

　　There were no elaborate settings, no fragrant flowers, no artistic arrangements; just an ordinary eight-immortal table. If my memory serves me right, not long ago, it had held a simple lunch of salted fish and pickles. The child's heart was captivated. Perhaps his eyes widened, gazing around as if searching for an answer to a question:

　　Why was that sunlight so breathtakingly beautiful? I remember sitting on the table by the window, glancing out intentionally or unintentionally. The shadows cast by the pink walls in the courtyard were so different from the warm, golden light inside. I casually opened my mother's old dressing case, shaking the small drawers and the small copper pendant carved into a flower basket, occasionally hearing the clear chirping of birds. Yet, a vague question remained in my heart about that sunlight.

　　More than twenty years have passed, and today, with another ray of sunlight, an elusive, inexplicably flowing yet tranquil treasure, I finally understand that my question will never have an answer. In fact, it is simply this: a solitary table, a lonely corner of a hall. A delicate mirror case, or the intermittent birdsong outside the window, and water droplets—the name of that beautiful little child's illness—coincidentally and eternally become the most natural associations in my memory, perfectly aligned with the quiet, slanting sunlight of early spring.