Thirty years have passed in the blink of an eye, yet through a series of family portraits, memories of the Liu family are peeled back layer by layer, like a sponge soaked with water—heavy with the dualities of their lives. In the yearly family photos, I search for traces of the Liu family’s memories, connecting the past and present in a vertical thread, faintly revealing a hidden third dimension—a reflection of the family under the weight of their era, a名利集 (realm of fame and fortune), the Liu family caught in the gears of time. These massive gears continue rolling forward, leaving deep imprints in their wake, and I persist in moving against the current, unraveling the stories beneath each family portrait. Throughout this narrative, I catch glimpses of myself in the narrow gaps—a self defined by position and circumstance. At times, I wonder: Is that really me? Who is Liu Tong? Is the person in the family portrait truly Liu Tong? What kind of person is he? These questions, born from a concern for how others perceive me, lead me to ponder even more deeply: In what form should Liu Tong exist? What is the meaning of his existence? Amid these doubts, I begin my search within the family portraits—a search that feels like swimming against the tide, a way of touching my own being. Only then do I feel my own existence. Every time I return to the old house to look for family portraits, it becomes a time tunnel against the current, transporting me back to the moment and space captured in each photo. I feel what they felt, see what I saw. But as soon as the flashlight flickers off, I’m thrust back into reality. The cruelty of this cycle—light and darkness, presence and absence—makes me certain that I am real, that I have existed.