The night wind swept over the empty city, birds flew away despondently, blades cold as frost, amidst the silence, only a solitary lamp illuminated the yellow paper window of the corner shop.
The hazy candlelight cast a blurred silhouette on the cobblestone path.
An old man with a hunched back sat by the window, holding a delicate small knife in his withered hand, its blade extremely thin, the silver handle as beautiful as a piece of art, with several simple objects placed on the table.
He used the blade as a pen, gently carving on a soft thin hide of unknown material, white like fresh snow, cutting out a beautiful shape with precision.
Putting down the knife, the old man took two wolf hair brushes, holding them between his fingers, lightly dipped in green ink and rouge, his withered hand steady as he painted.
With a few strokes, a finely sculpted face of a beauty appeared on the transparent soft skin.
