By the window of the living room, there is an old rattan chair that has been used for almost 30 years. The rattan strips of the chair body have been polished bright, and there are several shallow marks on the armrests, which are the traces I left when I scribbled with crayons when I was a child. Grandpa always sat on this chair, wearing presbyopic glasses and flipping through old photo albums. The sunlight fell on his white hair, and also fell on the staggered lines of the rattan chair. When I was young, I always climbed onto his lap, looked at the old photos in the album with him, and listened to his stories about chasing dragonflies in the alley when he was young. Later, Grandpa passed away, and none of us was willing to throw away this rattan chair. When I get home from work, I always curl up on it, hug the pillow and rock it a few times. The rattan makes a slight creak, like Grandpa is still talking slowly in my ear. The wind blows in from the window, brushing the old books on the bookshelf next to it. I lean back in the rattan chair and close my eyes, as if I can still smell the faint smell of dry tobacco on Grandpa. It turns out that the old objects at home are never useless decorations. They stand there quietly, keeping the scattered old days for us little by little.