A black butterfly was dancing gracefully outside the window.
She fluttered her wings, carefully weaving through the window frame and balcony with the help of the spiralling wind under the eaves. She deftly avoided the grass spirits clinging to the ivy vines and glided through the narrow spaces between their slender claws.
Watching their prey slip through their fingers, the grass spirits let out an indignant squeak.
The sunlight fell and was reflected back by the delicate, smooth scales on the black butterfly. Her body cast a tiny, glinting shadow on the red wall of the teaching building.
It was like a small dark cloud.
This dark cloud slid over the bricks, crossed the window sill, passed through the towering French window, and landed on a classroom desk, disappearing under the swiftly moving tip of a pen.
Zheng Qing's pen paused in his hand, leaving a blot of ink on his notebook.
He looked up as if sensing something and looked out the window.
