Scholars had gathered before a stall, trading lines and writing verses. The air smelled of ink. A child pushed…
Scholars had gathered before a stall, trading lines and writing verses.
The air smelled of ink. A child pushed through the crowd and squeezed up to the edge of the table. Even on tiptoe, it was just enough to reach the brush.
"What's so fun about writing poems?" He stood there thinking for a while, then picked up the brush and got to work.
When the child stepped away, a few of the adults leaned in to take a look. There was no poem on the paper. Just a round little face, drawn in bold ink lines, grinning from ear to ear.
For a moment, no one said a thing. Then the laughter spread, passing through the crowd like a ripple.