"Qinghe, what are you thinking about?" The perennial pestering follower, with a trotting gait, presented a plate of freshly cut fruit to share with Qinghe.
Qinghe glanced at him. She couldn't fathom what had gotten into him. Previously, he was always so eager calling her 'Sister Qinghe,' but now he directly addressed her by name, always giving her the illusion that perhaps he had recovered. However, the dark aura that still enveloped his body told her she was just wishful thinking.
