Whenever I encounter the word 'Home,' my thoughts immediately turn to my young grandpa – the one who shared the longest span of time with me. As the members of our once six-person household gradually disperse, only he and I remain. He holds a deep affection for this home, cherishing every scene it holds. He has a genuine desire to remain here - to be with us, to be with me.

Now, I find myself in a constant state of entering and leaving home. Since the protests began, my presence at home has become increasingly rare. I feel powerless to protect him from the presence of military dogs (soldiers) and informants. One day, as I returned home, I noticed him promptly removing a cloth from a realistic portrait among the paintings hanging on our walls. He appears to have a fear of portraits. He's someone who doesn't speak much, always dressed in white and blue, and seems apprehensive around people. What else is he afraid of, the one who always wears the color of the sky? Our 'Home' is built upon our fears.

I cannot free my mind from thoughts of home. It has been so long since I could escape the memories that cling to me. How long has it been for him? The time we've spent together surpasses the years I shared with my mom. Two people coexisting for over 20 years—what else can they possibly fear together? He is me, and I am him. I take photos of him whenever the fear of losing him grips me. I take photos whether he's aware of it or not. Sometimes, he willingly allows me to take photos. I left him in our Yangon home in June 2022. He left me in this world in November 2023.

My grandpa, who always wears the color of the sky, is like a home in the sky to me. I believe that my photos will keep him alive, even though he is no longer physically here. As long as the sky exists, so will he. As long as he exists, so will home.