As the rain soaked the stone steps, my parents' steps were much steadier than expected. My father held onto the iron chain on the rock wall, and my mother held my arm, as we stepped up through the clouds. As the rain and mist rolled over our shoulders, my mother muttered, "This mountain is so fairyland," while my father pointed to a strange rock hidden in the mist and said it looked like the one on the back mountain of our hometown. When we reached the top, the wind suddenly blew away the mist, and the sea of clouds rolled under our feet, with peaks looming in the distance. My father took out his mobile phone and kept taking pictures, while my mother smiled and wiped the raindrops from her forehead - it turned out that the scenery in their eyes was half mountain and half us who were slowly following them. The height of Laojinding is not as high as the road our parents accompanied us on. This time, it was our turn to hold their hands, in the clouds and mist, to slow down the passage of time.