An old man and a little girl just looked at each other like this for quite a while. Mr. Jing was still not fully back to his senses, just staring at the little girl's round, pink face.
His thoughts had already drifted back to two years ago, downstairs at Kaixing Mansion, when the little pink bundle before him reminded him not to sit on the flowerbed, saying the weather was too cold, and the tiles by the flowerbed would freeze one's butt. She said her mother was very, very good, said she didn't have a father, and then got led away by that middle-aged woman, her bouncy little back viewed filled with childish joy and sweetness.
Could it really be this child?
Mr. Jing suddenly flung off the thin blanket on him and sat up, still staring at Mianmian's face.
