Wong Wei-Him

Every Sunday morning, I take my daughter to my parental home, a place where I had spent my youth. Strange enough, this particular routine allows me to revisit a place that I was very familiar with, and in the eyes of an outsider. Like good photos could speak, a place can hold memories from the past. Here I find memories of my father. My mind is a time machine, and nostalgia is the temperature that can keep someone warm in heart.


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