Despair Forges Devotion, Suffering Creates Faith

When I was little, because my father and mother had disappeared, I lived with my grandfather and grandmother.

There were several Moonlight Osmanthus trees by our doorstep. Grandmother and Grandfather had planted them when they married. Every autumn, they gave off a faint fragrance, and their leaves turned a pale bluish-white, like the moon.

Grandfather had once been a decorated veteran of the Southern Legion. He had a pension, and our life had been fairly comfortable. But after Grandfather died, things grew tight.

Grandmother was a weaver. The cloth she wove in her youth had been sturdy, durable, and beautiful, but after marrying Grandfather, she had not touched a loom for a long time. After my father and mother disappeared, Grandmother had drifted through several muddled years. Only after Grandfather died as well did extreme grief bring her back to herself.

For my sake, Grandmother took up the loom that had long gathered dust. The cloth she wove was still sturdy and durable, but it could not sell for much. It could barely keep food on the table, and sometimes she had to sell old things from the house to support us. I also learned how to make flower crowns from Moonlight Osmanthus blossoms in autumn, but we still could not make ends meet.

Only later did I learn why. A textile mill had opened in Nauman City. From then on, cloth woven by individuals had become difficult to sell at a good price.

I hated textile mills. Grandmother's cloth was obviously so beautiful, yet it was so hard to sell.

Life was plain and poor, but every now and then, Grandmother would slip me one or two eggs.

She said that if a boy wanted to grow up well, he had to eat something nutritious.

She said she was