The first time she saw him, he had just come out of the theater, holding a cane, wearing a dark gray long coat with the hem reaching his knees, and his leather shoes gleaming. His figure was tall and upright, so much so that she didn’t even notice the graying at his temples or the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. As far as she knew, he had been married three times, and his eldest daughter was already married with children. He was sixty-five this year. An old man who could be the father of her father. “We’re not suited for each other. I’m too old,” he said with a smile, lighting a cigar. Being too old wasn’t his fault. She thought to herself, it was that she was too young. If they were just two souls, without age, without gender, without identity, then one soul would have the right to love another soul. However, an aging life had no right to love a young life.