Hardened aged bamboo, ready to be shaped into a young swallow.

  In a a, kites were poetically referred to as zhiyuan (纸鸢), meaning “paper kites” or even “paper birds,” evoking a sense of delicate artistry and freedom.

  Back at the apartment, Su Yudiel unpacked her bag, revealing bamboo strips, fine rice paper, cotton thread, glue, a dle, a craft knife, paintbrushes, and a whole array of tools – she was incredibly well-prepared.

  Zhuang Zi'ang was utterly amazed by her expertise. “You’re actually going to make a kite from scratch?”

  “Seriously! Does it look like I’m joking?” Su Yudiel said, pletely serious.

  Zhuang Zi'ang had flown store-bought kites a few times as a kid, but making one himself? Never even crossed his mind. He was, to put it simply, all thumbs.

  Kites boast a history stretg back two thousand years, though paper wasn't always the material. Kite-flying became a popur spring pastime across all ages during the flourishing papermaking era of the Song, Ming, and Qing dynasties.

  Over time, kite-flying became more than just a game; it evolved into a refined art form, a dispy of elegant taste. It’s even reized today as part of a's Intangible Cultural Heritage.

  Su Yudiel started by sketg a rge butterfly on the rice paper – the kite’s design. Then, using this as a tempte, she began strug the frame with bamboo strips.

  Totally astonished, Zhuang Zi'ang watched as she heated the bamboo over a dle fme, gently coaxing it into the desired curves. The girl was incredibly deft with her hands! He felt like a plete idiot, just standing there, watg, utterly useless.

  Su Yudiel secured the bamboo strips with cotton thread, creating the butterfly’s skeleton. Then, she carefully glued the rice paper onto the frame, trimming away the excess. Just like that, the kite's basi was plete.

  But to transform a kite from a mere toy into a piece of art, the design was everything. Su Yudiel lightly sketched the outlines in pencil, then prepared her paints, mixing the perfect hues.

  Brush in hand, she began to paint, focused and serene. A spring breeze drifted through the room, as silent as the falling blossoms outside.

  Zhuang Zi'ang stood aside, quietly admiring Little Butterfly’s perfect profile, not daring to make a sound. In that moment, it was like he was seeing a se from a thousand years ago – a young dy of noble birth, delicately painting a kite. So gentle, so graceful, so utterly charming. He’d never imagined kite-making could be so beautiful.

  With incredible patience, Su Yudiel painted, stroke by careful stroke, intricate patterns onto the butterfly wings. Ordinary bamboo and paper were being transformed into a work of art.

  “Ta-da! What do you think? Pretty, right?”

  After more than half an hour of painting, Su Yudiel finally set down her brush and sighed in satisfa. A lifelike butterfly y before Zhuang Zi’ang.

  “Little Butterfly, you’re amazing!” Zhuang Zi'ang excimed, full of genuine praise.

  “Grandma taught me. I used to make them every year when I was little!” Su Yudiel beamed, clearly proud of her handiwork.

  Then, she picked up her brush again and, with a mischievous grin, added a line of small characters in a bnk space she’d iionally left:

  Zhuang Zi'ang is a Big Dummy.

  Ba the old days, people did write on kites, but it was always lucky sayings ood wishes. Never insults!

  “It’s bad enough you tease me all the time, did you have to write it oe?” Zhuang Zi'ang grumbled pyfully.

  “This way, the kite will take your dummy-ness far away! Maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get a brain!” Su Yudiel retorted with a sly smile, her logideniably fwed.

  Determined not to be outdone, Zhuang Zi'ang grabbed a brush and added his own line right o hers:

  Little Butterfly is a Little Fool.

  Su Yudiel’s handwriting was delicate and graceful, while Zhuang Zi'ang’s was bold and flowing. Though, admittedly, the words themselves were a bit childish.

  Now, the twelve characters were crammed together, a dark blot that disrupted the kite’s color bance.

  “Ugly,” Su Yudiel pouted, her lower lip jutting out slightly.

  Zhuang Zi'ang picked up a brush, dipped it in red paint, and with a flourish, painted a heart right betweewo lines of childish insults.

  The spsh of red was a stroke of genius, like the final touch that brings a dragon painting to life (画龙点睛, a ese idiom meaning adding the finishing touch that brings a work of art to life). Suddenly, the colors popped.

  Looking at the heart led between their names, Su Yudiel’s face flushed, a shy blush rising in her cheeks.

  Ohe glue and ink were dry, they headed out to the grassy riverbank. The sky was a fwless, breathtaking blue, a gentle breeze whispering through the air – perfect kite-flyiher.

  Su Yudiel held the butterfly kite, ready for Zhuang Zi'ang to unch it. He ran bad forth across the meadow a few times, and the butterfly kite, caught by the wind, lifted effortlessly, s higher and higher.

  Unlike many mass-produced kites that look pretty but barely fly, Su Yudiel’s kite-making skills were the real deal. Watg the kite dan the sky, shrinking into a tiny speck, it truly resembled a butterfly in flight. As someone who had witnessed, and even slightly participated in, its creation, Zhuang Zi'a a surge of pride. This kind of joy, he knew, was something no store-bought kite could ever replicate.

  He smiled, quoting a line from an old poem: “'With a good wind, I shall ride to the clouds.'” The old poem came to mind, perfectly describing the kite’s ast.

  Su Yudiel gazed upwards, g and cheering, her ughter like the tinkling of wind chimes. Yet, a hint of longing flickered in her eyes.

  With the vast, zy clouds drifting above and the gentle murmur of the river below, how wonderful it would be to be a carefree butterfly, dang freely between heaven ah.

  Ohe kite was high enough, it needed little effort, just an occasional tug oring. Zhuang Zi'ang hahe spool to Su Yudiel, lettiake over.

  Su Yudiel eagerly grabbed it, skipping and running across the meadow, her neck ed upwards, a stant, goofy grin pstered across her face. Her happiness was iious.

  Happiness, in its purest form, is often this simple.

  Zhuang Zi'ang sat on the grass, quietly watg the girl. Sunlight streamed through the clouds, bathing her in a warm, golden light. Every strand of her hair glowed, swayily with her movements. The peach blossom tucked behind her ear seemed impossibly vibrant.

  How young and fair the peach tree grows, / So full of flowers it brightly glows. / This maideo grace her home, / And fitly rule her house to e. The lines of the a poem drifted into Zhuang Zi'ang's mind, a poignant reminder of marriage, of futures he wouldn't share with her. He thought of Li Huangxuan’s words the ht about being a best man, and a sharp pang of pain shot through his heart.

  Su Yudiel would be breathtaking in a wedding dress. A sight he would never see. The man who got to marry her must have saved the gaxy in a past life.

  The kite climbed higher and higher, being a tiny dot against the clouds, and the suronger, almost blinding. Su Yudiel hahe spool back to Zhuang Zi'ang, then pulled the craft knife from her bag.

  “What are you doing?” Zhuang Zi'ang asked, startled.

  “Cutting the string. That’s the only way the butterfly truly be free,” Su Yudiel said, her eyes clear and resolute.

  “But you spent so long making it. It’s such a waste to just let it go,” Zhuang Zi'ang protested.

  “I already had fun making it. That’s enough. Now, I want it to fly far, far away,” Su Yudiel replied firmly. She didn’t see the kite as just a toy. To her, it was almost alive.

  Zhuang Zi'ang didn’t argue further. It would sound too… mundane.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Su Yudiel decisively severed the string. The butterfly, finally unbound, danced on the wind, drifting towards the horizon. Carrying the names of Zhuang Zi'ang and Little Butterfly, it set off to find its freedom.

  In this world, for many things, the process itself holds more value thae. Just as everyone is born knowing they will face death, it doesn't stop us from sav life.

  Live as brilliantly as summer flowers, and pass as peacefully as autumn leaves.

  Zhuang Zi'ang, hands in his pockets, watched the kite disappear into the vast expanse of sky, then turned back to the girl beside him.

  And then, he heard it – clear and undeniable, the sound of his ow surrendering, falling for her.