"None of it, Madam... You... please go see for yourself." Chang Hao, usually so composed, wore a complex expression.
Something that can't be said openly, something almost unspeakable.
It made me uneasy, fearing Little Dumpling might have some strange illness or something. "Alright."
Chang Hao led me to a waterfall in the back mountain, where a little child of about three years stood.
The child looked quite peculiar, with skin as milky white as congealed cream.
With a bit of baby fat, round like a meatball.
But.
His neck was covered with red scales, glistening and translucent.
Like shining rubies, intricately carved piece by piece.
A beauty that can only be seen by the naked eye, possibly unable to be captured even by photographs.
The little child was using a brush dipped in cinnabar, drawing something on yellow paper.
With tiny, chubby fingers writing, indescribably adorable.
