The little wooden house stood quietly at the edge of the village, surrounded by fruit trees, wildflowers, and the sound of crickets that sang every evening. To many, it might have seemed too small, too old, or too ordinary. But for Lala, that house was a world full of laughter, tenderness, and countless memories that made her heart feel warm even years later.
Lala had spent most of her childhood in that simple home. It was not painted in bright colors, nor did it have fancy furniture, but every corner carried stories of love. The bamboo walls let in the cool wind at night, and the clay floor always felt cool under her bare feet. She remembered how, in the mornings, the sunlight slipped through the gaps in the wooden roof and drew playful lines of gold on the floor. Sometimes she would lie there, pretending the golden rays were magical paths leading her to adventures.
One of the most beautiful memories Lala kept close was of her mornings with her mother. Every day, her mother would wake her gently, and together they would step into the small garden behind the house. Her mother would tend to the vegetables—spinach, beans, and cucumbers—while Lala chased butterflies and collected wildflowers. Sometimes she helped water the plants, but she always ended up splashing water on herself more than on the vegetables. Her mother would laugh and shake her head, saying, “Lala, you’re watering yourself into a flower!”
Afternoons were for playing with friends from the neighborhood. They would run barefoot across the fields, climb guava trees, and play hide-and-seek among the tall grass. The laughter of children filled the air like music. Lala especially loved when they made little boats out of banana leaves and floated them on the narrow stream near the house. She always believed those tiny boats carried her dreams down the stream to the faraway world.
The old home also held the sweet smell of food that made every memory complete. Her grandmother often sat by the clay stove, cooking with firewood. The smell of rice cooking, the crackle of fire, and the warmth of the kitchen were comforting. During rainy days, Lala would curl up next to her grandmother while she roasted corn or sweet potatoes. The rain would drum on the roof, but inside it felt safe, warm, and full of love.
Evenings brought a different kind of magic. As the sun sank behind the hills, the house would glow softly in the fading light. Lala’s father would return from work, and the family would gather on the porch. They ate together, laughed together, and shared stories. Lala especially loved when her father told tales about the stars. He would point at the night sky and say, “Every star is a story, Lala. If you listen closely, you’ll hear them whisper.” That’s how she grew to love the night sky and still, as an adult, she looked up at it whenever she missed home.
The festivals celebrated in that old home were unforgettable. During New Year, the house filled with relatives, laughter, and the smell of special dishes. Children ran around with sparklers, and elders told stories late into the night. Lala remembered how she always wore her best dress and helped her mother prepare offerings. The house may have been small, but during festivals, it felt like the heart of the world.
There were also quiet, tender moments that remained deeply etched in her heart. Sometimes, when she was upset or cried after a fight with friends, she would run to the back of the house and hide near the mango tree. But her mother always knew where to find her. She would sit beside her, stroke her hair, and whisper comforting words until the tears dried. That mango tree became her secret place of comfort, a silent witness to her joys and sorrows.
Life in the old home was simple, but it taught Lala values that shaped her forever. She learned patience from tending the garden, kindness from her grandmother’s gentle ways, and resilience from her parents, who worked hard but never complained. She realized happiness was not about having many things, but about cherishing what you had with the people you loved.
Years later, when her family moved to a bigger, modern house in the city, Lala’s heart was torn. She was excited about new opportunities, but a part of her longed for the old home. The tall buildings, busy streets, and noise of the city could never replace the calm evenings under the stars, the smell of her grandmother’s cooking, or the playful afternoons in the fields.
Even as she grew older, she often closed her eyes and traveled back in memory. She could hear her friends laughing as they climbed trees, see her mother’s smile as she cooked, and feel the warmth of her father’s hand as he guided her gaze to the constellations. She remembered the cracked clay floor, the simple bamboo mats, and the tiny window that opened to the garden. Each memory was like a bead, strung together into a necklace of love that she wore around her heart.
Sometimes, when life in the city felt overwhelming, Lala would return to the village. The old house still stood there, though time had left its marks. The roof sagged a little, the walls leaned slightly, and weeds had crept into the corners. But when she stepped inside, the air still smelled faintly of firewood, and she could almost hear the echoes of laughter and chatter. She would walk around quietly, touching the walls, running her fingers along the wooden doors, and sitting by the old mango tree.
It was during those visits that she realized the house itself was not what made her memories so beautiful. It was the love, the bonds, and the simple life shared within those walls. The home had been a vessel, holding the essence of her childhood, her family, and her joy.
Now, whenever Lala tells stories to her own children, she always begins with, “Back in my old home…” Her children listen wide-eyed, imagining the wooden house, the streams, the fields, and the night sky filled with stars. She knows they may never experience that exact life, but through her stories, they too can feel the beauty of simplicity.
And so, Lala carries her old home with her, not in her hands, but in her heart. The beautiful memories are like seeds, reminding her that happiness grows best in simple soil, watered with love. Though life has taken her far, the essence of that simple life will forever guide her, a quiet compass pointing her back to who she truly is.
