Responding to the unspoken question in Nie Zhao's heart, a butterfly fluttered its wings, as if guided by some telepathic bond.
Han Yuzhu had always loved brightly colored, flamboyant cheongsams, and this butterfly was just as vibrant.
So it really was Mom, was it? Nie Zhao raised his hand, looking quietly at the butterfly. The butterfly, too, ceased its wing-beats, resembling the gaze from his childhood when, lying sick in bed, frail yet full of maternal love, she would gently stroke his face.
Chapter 660