In the past, no matter how late he came home, that silly girl would always be waiting for him in the living room. The lights at the door would be on, left deliberately for him.
Inside the home, only a dim chandelier was lit, its feeble radiance spilling onto her. She would look at him, her face all smiles, yet her eyes unabashedly full of love. "You're home," she would say.
That was the phrase he'd heard from her the most, and also the one she said with the most joy.
"Why aren't the lights on?" he would ask her.
Lowering her head, the girl would come over with his slippers to place before him. In a soft voice, she'd say, "I was afraid the bright lights would hurt your eyes when you came in from outside."
"They're bad for your eyes." The girl would stand up, her eyes always shy to meet his, her smile timidly courteous, her movements obedient.
