It was many, many years later, when all that was left of what he inherited from his father was his baldness. On a cold winter afternoon, he sat stationary, soaking up the heat, as he sipped the chrysanthemum tea to help stir his senses. It took him back to those days in the house by the open field, with the workers on the porch just like he always imagined. He was served tea there once, and saw a book on Zen sitting peacefully next to the couch. He remembered opening it and seeing those Tibetan characters, wondering if somehow the thoughts would transcend the barrier of language and help him reach enlightenment. After a minute, he started to feel dizzy from the patterns that seemed to be forming from the letters, and placed the book back down.

He never knew why he went to the cupboard and opened that cardboard box where he had carefully placed all that had ever passed through in his life. He looked at the photo and letter that signalled a farewell that at the time he had welcomed, now faded with the years and the places he had been since. He sighed and was glad that he kept these things to remember the times, and at that moment, he knew that any regret was but an illusion his mind had created.