"At that time, my feathers were all ruffled, one wing broken, looking both pitiful and frightening. Other kids would cry and run away when they saw me, or pick up stones to throw at me. But not you. You didn't hide or fear. You took out some wet wild fruits from your arms and placed them on the stone beside me."
Seraphina Caldwell was stunned.
Those words clearly came from Evan Orwell's mouth, yet they seemed to echo in her heart thousands of times.
"You even called me Little Crane."
"You wanted to touch my wing, extending your hand but pulling it back again, afraid to hurt me. In the end, you dared to lightly touch it. Your movements were slow, fingertips trembling, and as you touched the feathers, you softly asked if it hurt. I said it didn't hurt, but it did, yet I didn't say so. I didn't want you to worry."
Seraphina didn't speak, just quietly listening.
Moonlight shone on her face.
Yet somehow, a fluffy little crane appeared in her mind.
