I embarked on solitary living. My abode occupies the fifth level, where my minuscule existence remains concealed. The climate is delightful, for it is the balmy season of spring. Its zephyr emerges through crevices, and the illumination is exceedingly faint, gently alighting upon the beige drapes. This fabric, adorning the curtains, was initially preserved by my grandmother. Similar to me, she possesses an affinity for accumulating trifles. Gradually, an abundance of possessions amasses, inundating the entire cabinet with seemingly “useless” items. Nonetheless, we perpetually assert: “They shall prove useful when the need arises!” Indeed, my rental abode is devoid of any belongings; everything is immaculately white, while the verdant grass…