“Over there,” his son replies, watching the corners of his father’s mouth turn downwards just the slightest bit. “Where did you get that?”Ī-Yuan looks up at him guilelessly, before pointing to a spot just a little bit away from the wooden pier where Wei Ying was fishing on-the spot that he’s told the boy repeatedly not to go by himself with all the sharp rocks and deceptively shallow tide pools. “A-Yuan,” Wei Ying says slowly, drawing out the syllables, as he puts down his fishing rod to give his six year old son his full attention. There is a damp white ribbon in his son’s hands.
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