Like most other gated suburbs in medium-density Chinese cities, ours was a cluster of nondescript buildings, countless lives piled to the skies. If Vermeer conjured a corner of my childhood bedroom on canvas and asked me to finish the rest, I’d have a hard time. Only floor plans have given my memories of movement a tangible form, a shape for the routine motions that made up my days. I walked through the front door and into the living room. A floor plan is the only way I’ll retain anything of that route to the window.

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