Jian crouched beside the little boy silently, gently pouring water into his own palm and pouring it over the child's fingers. The boy winced once—quietly—but didn't pull away.
"There," Jian murmured. "Almost clean."
He took a strip of torn cloth from his pocket and carefully dabbed the boy's small hand dry. The touch was light, as if afraid the boy might vanish if he pressed too hard.
The boy lifted his chin slowly, revealing wide, glistening eyes and a tiny, gap-toothed smile. "Thanks, Mister Jian."
Jian blinked at the innocent grin before a soft chuckle left him. He reached out and tousled the boy's tangled hair, ruffling it affectionately. "What's your name, kid?"
The smile on the boy's face grew even brighter. For a moment, he radiated like a little sun—pure, warm, and untouched by the horrors they'd just escaped.
But instead of answering, the boy took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Jian's leg, clinging like a vine desperate for shelter.
