The world is harsh, but with your arrival, it becomes wonderful.
Wufu leaned against the grave's entrance, sitting amidst the bloodstains, holding her child stiffly in her arms. This was her son, the true and only connection she shared by blood, including both blood and soul.
Under the faint firelight, she carefully observed the baby in her arms. He was less than a month old, very tiny, his face wrinkled like a little monkey, although his eyes were tightly shut, there was a deep crease on his eyelid, probably a double eyelid, with long eyeliner, and even thicker, longer eyelashes.
"Little clown." Wufu's trembling hand touched his soft face and his fine, damp hair.
There's no water here; she can't completely clean him up.
A sense of guilt rose within her, and Wufu looked at him, speaking softly, "Mother is sorry to you."
In such circumstances, she brought him into the world, yet had not organized properly.
