Where the modest Siheyuan used to be, a towering mall emerges. Its windows stretch
from floor to ceiling, displaying lean mannequins of different poses covered in Chanel and
Burberry. The soft sheep leather shines under the brightness of the dazzling lights, casting a still
but faint shadow. From the outside, I can already imagine the scent within: light, floral perfume

with a tint of expensive leather. From the flawless floors to the immaculate display shelves, ev-
erything is clean. Too clean. A clean so sharp that it wipes away every drop of the rich olive oil

used to fry juicy dumplings and crispy scallion pancakes. What was once alive is now polished,
air-conditioned, and elegant; the air smells and feels different, a type of new I know I won’t ever
get used to. Hidden speakers camouflaged into the high ceiling softly play Vivaldi’s Spring, the
elegant and gentle melody fitting for a luxury store like this. The rhythmic violin notes drift past
the heavy doors guarded by the doormen, mixing with the cool, quiet air conditioning that seeps
out the mall as the doors open and close. Most mornings I pass by without stopping, Starbucks
matcha latte in hand, airpods playing “deja vu” by Olivia Rodrigo. Occasionally, when the coarse
wind bites my soft cheeks, I smell something else: something different yet familiar.
     Suddenly, fragments of my memory flood my mind like waves pounding against the Big
Sur. It’s strange and powerful how one scent can piece together everything you thought you had
forgotten, like how ingredients make up an impressive meal. Suddenly, I remember everything.
I remember the alley that came before the mall and before me. It was narrow and dusty, walled
in with gray bricks, alive with the shouts of children playing “Marco Polo.” Bicycle bells would
ring, along with a “ Watch out!” Hearing this, children immediately stopped and moved aside,
only to race again to the store at the corner of the alley for Hawthorn ice cream and spicy snacks.
Nearby, a man pedaled past with floating balloons tied to his handlebar: Pikachu, Peppa Pig, and
Hello Kitty. Old men leaned their hunched backs on wooden chairs, playing Mahjong on a low
wooden table. As one man skillfully flicked the tiles from his worn-out yet gentle index finger,
straw fans lazily sliced through the humid July air like a dull bread knife cutting a dry French
baguette.

     At first, I only saw the Siheyuan, my grandma’s house, with its gray brick walls, red wood-
en doors with gold doorknobs, and its big courtyard hung with washed clothes. Then, I saw a

girl in a flower-patterned dress squatting as she played tic-tac-toe with another kid. It took me a
second to realize it was me.
      “Hurry! Lüdagun (an iconic Chinese dessert) is ready!” my grandmother called. She held
out a big roll of lüdagun, carefully cutting them into equal pieces to reveal sticky rice wrapping
around the sweet bean paste. Similar to mochi, they are soft in the center, the sticky rice and
bean paste instantly melting inside my mouth like ice cream on a hot summer day. Content
after eating our afternoon snack, a couple of other kids and I crouched beside Zhang Ayi’s (Ms.
Zhang) fish bowl, my friends’ curious eyes spanning the glass as we debated on what to name the
goldfish.

      The air was thick with scallion pancakes and smoke, its oily scent already attracting me
like magnets of opposite charges to the kitchen to kneel on a chair beside my grandma as I watch
her swiftly flip the sizzling and crispy pancake. Every time she flips the pan, I ask whether the
pancake is ready, my legs dangling from the chair and swinging impatiently as I wait. Although
smoky and sometimes triggering the loud and unbearable fire alarm, the air feels safe, like my
grandma’s soft quilt that lulls me to sleep every night despite the hot and humid air.
      Now, as I press against Gucci’s glass window display, I piece fragments of my childhood
memory into a complete puzzle. At home, I try to make lüdagun, but something always tastes
wrong. Instead of narrow streets filled with kids playing tag, the wide streets bustle with traffic
as adults hurry to work, not caring what the past meant. Sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed, I
escape the present by visiting the mall and closing my eyes. Then, for a short moment, I am back
in that ordinary place where I spent the summer of 2014.