Emma Bennett's mother Lillian Clark gets off work a bit late from the garment factory, so usually it's Grandma who picks up Grace Ford. In the end, only Emma Bennett, Charles Page, and Little Mr. Clark were left in the classroom.

Little Mr. Clark was cleaning up the scraps of paper left by the children. Emma Bennett looked at Charles Page's back and waddled over on her short little legs.

The setting sun filled the courtyard. Her chubby little hand held a paper airplane, which she gently placed on his lap.

Charles Page's wheelchair wasn't high, but sitting in it, he was still a bit taller than the four-year-old girl.

Charles Page looked at her.

She smiled, her apricot-shaped eyes curving, and in a soft, childish voice said, "Here you go, my name is Emma Bennett. We live very close to each other. Let's go home together, okay?"

Charles Page's face was cold, and without warning, he threw the airplane away.

Go away, I don't want you.

She actually understood the message in his eyes.

But little Charles Page forgot it was a paper airplane. A gentle breeze carried it far away, and it landed in front of the plum tree in the courtyard.

Emma Bennett glanced at the paper airplane, then turned to look at him.

The next moment, she trotted over to pick it up. She ran back and carefully placed the paper airplane on his lap again, the light in her eyes undimmed.

A surge of anger rose in Charles Page's heart, though he didn't know why. He gritted his teeth and threw it away again.

The little girl kept picking it up for him. Each time she brought it back, she would carefully pat off the dust and place it on his lap, looking up at him with a smile.

On the sixth time, she gingerly put it on his lap.

He tore it up with a blank expression.

Emma Bennett's slightly yellow hair was soft, tied into two little pigtails.

Charles Page thought she would definitely cry, just like Henry Brooks, who would cry so loudly and then complain to the teacher. None of the kids in kindergarten liked him. Even before his legs were injured, he was quiet and had few friends. The other children all thought he was withdrawn and hard to get along with.

Emma Bennett knew that everyone who had been hurt was like a hedgehog, but their hearts were still soft.

In the innocent tone of a four-year-old, she asked him, "If you don't want to play anymore, shall we go home? My mom hasn't come to pick me up either. How about we go home by ourselves?"

He didn't say anything, but when Emma Bennett reached out to touch his wheelchair, he suddenly raised his hand and hit the back of her hand.

He didn't hold back at all—a crisp "smack" rang out. Her soft little hand immediately turned red.

Emma Bennett instinctively pulled her hand back.

She lowered her head to look at her little hand, and Charles Page was also looking at the hand he had just hit.

The little girl's chubby hand was white and soft, with a few dimples on the back. Emma Bennett had always been afraid of pain as a child, trembling all over at the sight of a needle. Charles Page was born with a broken palm line, and his merciless slap hurt more than expected.

Emma Bennett sighed inwardly.

He really was hard to get along with.

She wanted to say something else, but Lillian Clark's figure had already appeared on the path outside the kindergarten.

Emma Bennett frowned slightly. Lillian Clark came over, picked up Emma Bennett, and greeted Little Mr. Clark. As they passed Charles Page, her heart softened too: "Charles Page, Aunt Clark will take you home, okay?"

Charles Page lowered his head, his fingers gripping the door crack tightly.

Little Mr. Clark smiled awkwardly and said, "Emma Bennett's mom, you go ahead."

Lillian Clark had no choice but to leave with Emma Bennett in her arms.

Holding her soft little daughter, she sighed gently, "Sigh, what kind of sins did those two commit, for their child to end up like this..."

After they had gone far, Little Mr. Clark finally smiled and patted Charles Page's head.

Charles Page didn't move at all. Little Mr. Clark followed his gaze and realized he was looking at the mother and daughter at the end of the path.

Lillian Clark had picked a little yellow wildflower and tucked it into the little girl's pigtail. The girl in her arms had big eyes that curved like crescent moons.

Innocent, happy, and adorable.

Charles Page's gaze fell on Emma Bennett.

After a long time, he opened his hand, revealing a palmful of hidden scraps from the paper airplane. He silently let them go.

The paper scraps drifted away on the wind.

He knew she had lied to him—her mom would come to pick her up and take her home.

～

After dinner, Emma Bennett opened her bedroom window. While Lillian Clark was washing the dishes, she climbed onto a stool with effort to look outside.

The light on the fourth floor across the way came on.

That was Charles Page's home. Someone was there, so he must have been picked up and brought home. Only then did she feel relieved.

They lived in the same apartment complex. Emma Bennett's family was on the third floor, Charles Page's on the fourth. Emma Bennett had slept in her own bed from an early age and had her own bedroom. From her home, she could see Charles Page's place.

In the middle of the night, she developed a fever again. Lillian Clark slept beside her, and when she touched her daughter's body, it was burning hot.

Leaning in, she still couldn't make out what Emma Bennett was muttering, but her sobs soaked the pillow with tears. Lillian Clark was startled awake from her drowsiness and hurried to cool her down with alcohol.

Just before dawn, Emma Bennett opened her eyes, her forehead burning. What scared her even more was—her memory was starting to blur.

It was as if she used to see the world through a clear pane of glass, but gradually, that glass was being covered up, making everything hard to see.

She vaguely remembered that she had died at the age of twenty-two.

It was a ridiculous death.

And now, even those unforgettable memories were shrouded in a thick fog, as if this four-year-old girl's body was rejecting them.