There are places that stay with you no matter how long you’ve been away. For me, that place is my hometown.

Ever since I started college, I’ve rarely gone back except during winter and summer breaks. The city where I study is 505 kilometers from home, so this summer’s trip back felt especially meaningful.

The moment I stepped out of the high-speed rail station, the air carried a scent I knew instantly. It was familiar in a way that is hard to explain, something that belonged only to home. I rode back on an electric scooter along the uneven, bumpy roads, jolted around the whole way, almost disoriented by how quickly old memories came rushing back. By the time I arrived, the sky had already gone dim and only a little light remained.

The next day, feeling nostalgic, I went to the old house where I used to live.

During my three years of junior high, every morning began there. I would get up early, eat, and then leave by car for school. The road in front of the house was where each day started. Near the doorway lay a long stone slab that my father had bought in advance for the pillars of a new house.

I still remember summer evenings there: holding a bowl of rice topped with meat rolls and vegetables, sitting outside on that stone, eating with complete satisfaction. That was what home tasted like.

The second floor of the old house is the place I miss most.

From up there, I could see a clear blue sky by day and a sky full of stars at night. Before sixth grade, there was no second floor at all. It was added during a renovation that year. As a child, I used to envy other families who had a second floor and enough open space to fly kites.

Later, a small room was built on the back half of that floor. In front of it, there had once been all kinds of flowers and plants, along with a large satellite dish. On summer evenings, we would pour one or two buckets of water onto the floor to cool it down, set up a table, and settle in. Much of my life during those three years of junior high was spent there, studying on the second floor.

This time, when I went back to look, the bed and desk in that upstairs room were gone. Only a small table, no higher than table legs, was still there. There was also a TV cabinet, and inside it I had once packed away my books from elementary school, junior high, and high school. It still stood in the same place.

That upstairs space used to be my own small world. When I was relaxed, I listened to music there. When I was troubled, I would stand by the window or out on the balcony, staring into the distance, watching the stars and the moon.

Three years passed there, along with three years of dreams. During junior high, I carried out what I once called my dreams and held on to what I once believed were my principles. There was sweetness and bitterness, struggle and loneliness. Much of it felt like fighting on my own.

Time moves quickly. The days I spent on that second floor have become some of the most precious memories of my life. My hometown remains the place I return to in my heart, a shelter that never really leaves me, no matter how far I go.