This is a memory of my sophomore year of 1989, the year when I almost got killed. I don’t feel lucky for my survival, but a strong feeling of sadness for myself, because of my inability to do something in the face of death. Twenty years have passed. Mother’s hair has turned gray; beloved ones have dried up the tears. Glorious as forever on this first street of China, silence prevails. Silence, forgetting and deliberate covering, people’s memory turns into a vacuum. The bygones twisted into a blurred picture, true memory gone, illusion remains. That memory makes us more helpless as the time passes by. Remaining silent in the face of reality is a testimony of our hypocrisy and weakness. The living still live in the question of the dead. The sun always rises the next morning and the four seasons remain alternate. The innocent died on the side of the world, while the guilty are at large on the other side of the world. This is the reality that has not yet changed throughout the history.