The little girl held an umbrella for him. Beneath the pitter-patter of the heavy rain, she held it for a long time till her hand became unsteady.
Pei Chuan raised his hand several times, but then just silently retracted it.
This year, Bei Yao was eleven years old. Her features hadn’t matured yet, and the hair on her back was still tied into a ponytail. She wore the old clothes of her cousin Xiao Cang; her face looked a little haggard.