"No, they are perfect," he says, gently running his finger over the drawing. He can see it so clearly now, the cold springs, and the time he'd placed Sizhui in the midst of the rabbits and Xiongzhang had come to warn him that rabbits sometimes bite. He thinks about sitting down with his new toddler, overwhelmed with his loss and his newfound fatherhood, and masking his sadness by asking his new son, "what's that one's name?"

And somehow, even years later, all the rabbits get names, and it's some sort of unwritten rule that Hanguang-Jun does the naming, but Juniors may be invited in for such a privilege.

He thinks about it, and in his mind blooms so many memories, that a smile warms his countenance. "Wei Ying. Thank you."