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The Daoist walked steadily from west to east, leaning on his bamboo staff. The jujube-red horse silently followed, carrying their luggage.
Beside him, the little girl also held a bamboo staff, hers much thinner than the Daoist’s.
She ran ahead, holding her staff high. Tied to the top was a slender grass string, and fastened to the string was a small white cloth about the size of a cat’s paw. As she ran, the wind caught the cloth, making it flutter and spin. It looked less like a piece of cloth and more like a butterfly.
The butterflies of the grasslands, as simple-minded as they were, seemed to believe it was indeed a butterfly. They began to follow the white cloth, soon forming a neat line trailing behind it.
The little girl ran, waving her staff, the cloth fluttering.
Behind her stretched a long, orderly line of butterflies.
When she had run far enough, she turned in a wide circle across the grasslands before running back. Passing behind the Daoist and the jujube-red horse, she then continued forward again, as if tireless.
“Daoist priest, look!”
“Hmm.”
“There are even more now!”
“Impressive.”
“...”
Not only did she seem tireless, but she also didn’t smile—her face remained serious. Yet her eyes shone with an unusual brightness, filled with curiosity, and her voice rang out clear and crisp.
She ran back and forth, holding her bamboo staff high.
The Daoist...
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