Just a rustic shack on the crest of a small hill. The adjacent property looked hardly any different, excepting a new paint job that caught a glint of sunlight at precisely 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
But the shack was different. Because he lived there. As had his father. And his father before that, stretching back to the 18th century. Possibly longer. In any case, it was long enough for him to feel a special connection to that house, that hill, as if he had grown roots in its soil, strong as an oak tree, gnarling and spreading down to the Earth’s core.
Most days he liked to sit out on his rickety porch, facing directly away from the shack next door. Not because of the glint of sunlight, which was irritating, but because of them. His neighbours.
“Ni hao!” one said to him, walking by his house. He only glowered in response.
How pathetic, he thought to himself. Can’t they understand they’re not in China anymore? Can’t they just accept that?
Sometimes a lack of acceptance can make people bloody angry.