A few years later, Zhou Ping and An'an had learned to walk.
Zhou Ping took after his father—sturdy and bold, wanting to reach out and touch everything he saw.
An'an resembled A-Yuan somewhat. She was quieter and liked squatting beside Qin Ming's workbench, picking up stone chips from the ground and clutching them in her palm one grain at a time.
A-Fu saw this, opened his mouth, but said nothing.
He turned and went into the yard to chop firewood.
After An'an had gathered a fistful of stone chips, she ran up to Qin Ming and held out her grimy little hand.
"Grandpa, here."
Qin Ming lowered his head and looked at the fragments filling her palm.
He did not say, "No need," nor did he tell the child to wash her hands herself.
He took the stone chips and set them by the windowsill.
Then he continued carving stone.
History seemed to be a cycle.
When Zhou Ping was four, he began learning stone carving from Qin Ming.
It was not that Qin Ming wanted to teach him. Zhou Ping had wanted to learn himself.
He watched his grandfather make stroke after stroke with his knife, turning stone into cats, fish, and flying birds. He thought it was the most miraculous thing in the world.
Qin Ming carved him a small wooden knife and found several soft stones.
"Practice straight lines first."
Zhou Ping gripped the wooden knife and used all his strength to scratch at the stone.
He left a crooked mark, like a worm crawling across it.
Qin Ming did not say, "That's wrong."
He merely picked up his flat-bladed knife and lightly made a stroke beside that mark.
Perfectly straight.
Zhou Ping stared at it for a long time.
Then he lowered his head and