He asked: "Grandma, are you not afraid of my bad eyesight? Or are you not worried that you don't like the girl I fancy?"

Grandma patted his hand: "Silly boy, you are my grandson. How could I not like the girl you like? I just hope that the girl you like doesn't dislike me, a sick old woman."

Grandma's gentle and kind voice in the past seemed to still echo in his ears, but it was the voice in his memory. It had been too long, too long since he had called grandma himself, and it had been too long since grandma called him Aze.