Chapter Seventeen: Dream of the Butterfly

After breakfast at the Yunmeng family’s restaurant, Ye Ran headed straight for Bricklayer Street.

Before he left, Yunmeng reminded him that if he came by that evening and felt uneasy, he could bring Freya along.

Ye Ran’s steps quickened with anxiety; after spending the night away, he was worried about the little girl, Freya. He only felt relieved once he saw the intact doors and windows.

As usual, he knocked three times. The sound of footsteps pattered from inside, and then the door swung open. Freya, leaning on her tiny crutch, almost threw herself into his arms.

“Hey, did you miss me that much?”

Ye Ran gently pushed her aside and entered the house, two butterflies drifting down to rest on his shoulders.

These butterflies were rather peculiar; even their wings were mismatched in size, one big and one small. Ye Ran imagined that among their peers, they must look as awkward as Andoru, that chubby fellow.

He asked curiously, “Freya, did you catch these butterflies?”

He glanced suspiciously at her plastered leg and casually placed the takeout box containing crystal buns on the table.

Freya perched on the little stool across from him, nodded, then shook her head, and scribbled on her sketchboard with a shaky hand: “I drew them.”

Her delicate face glowed with pride.

Ye Ran chuckled, “You think just because I didn’t sleep all night you can fool me? Draw another living one for me, let’s see.”

“Fine, I’ll draw,” Freya wrote quickly, then erased the words and drew another butterfly on the board.

When she finished, she looked at it with anticipation—far more eagerly than she ever awaited Ye Ran’s dishes at the table.

But the butterfly on the board remained motionless.

Ye Ran sipped his tea with a knowing look, as if he had expected this outcome.

Freya grew impatient, slapping the board with her tiny hand, but no matter how she struck it, the butterfly did not stir.

The two butterflies already in the air slipped out through the crack in the door.

With a sharp smack, Freya, furious at the unmoving butterfly, snatched her sketchboard from around her neck and slammed it onto the floor. Ignoring her crutch, she sat on the stool and stomped wildly on the board.

“Freya…” Ye Ran was startled, quickly crouching to hold her little foot, then picked up the board from the ground.

He inspected it—thankfully, it wasn’t broken.

“You’re so temperamental! You usually treasure it so much, what if you break it? And your foot…”

He didn’t finish, because he saw Freya’s eyes reddened, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed in both grievance and sorrow.

Ye Ran was at a loss, not knowing why she suddenly cried so bitterly. He tried to comfort her, massaging her foot and speaking gently, but the more he soothed her, the harder she wept.

She lay across the table, crying for a long time before finally calming herself, then wrote on her board: “The butterflies really are my drawings.”

Ye Ran hastily replied, “I believe you, I believe you. It’s just two butterflies…”

He truly didn’t know how to comfort a girl.

Freya wrote again: “Freya can’t help you with anything.”

“Why are you saying this all of a sudden? You’re still so young, and you’re my patron goddess. Feeding you is my responsibility,” Ye Ran said.

“If the butterflies I draw were real, the coins I drew would be real too. You wouldn’t have to work to support Freya anymore.”

When this line appeared on the board, Ye Ran felt an urge to cry.

She had always longed to help him.

Freya began to sketch picture after picture: first, a figure delivering newspapers everywhere; then a person working in a restaurant; then someone washing laundry. She drew many scenes.

She drew one, erased it, then drew another and erased it again. Ye Ran knew she was portraying him—his days rising early, delivering newspapers, working at three restaurants at once, and washing over two thousand dirty garments on Gourmet Street.

Finally, Freya drew a little girl sitting happily at the dinner table.

Her meaning was clear: Ye Ran had worked tirelessly to provide for her.

Freya drew a butterfly on her board, then marked an arrow pointing to a heap of coins, another arrow leading to a grand house.

Heaven knew how joyful she was when she saw those two butterflies fly from the board—not because of the butterflies themselves, but because she thought she could draw coin after coin, a house, and Ye Ran would never have to labor so hard again. They could live together without worries.

Bit by bit, she wiped away the house, coins, and butterflies from the board, tears once more slipping down her cheeks.

She knew now—the butterflies would not come to life, nor would the coins or the house. Ye Ran would still have to toil, still risk his life for money, just as he had the night before.

So, whether Ye Ran believed the butterflies were drawn didn’t matter; but for Freya, when the butterfly remained motionless on the board, it was as though the light of hope had suddenly been extinguished, as if she could see Ye Ran battered by wind and rain, struggling beneath the harsh sun and storm.

Ye Ran gently hung the sketchboard back around her neck, holding her small hand. “Freya, you’ve already helped me more than you know.”

“The day I met you, Snow had already left, taking all my savings. I hadn’t eaten for two days, didn’t even have the strength to work. In truth, I’d lost the will to live. Time and again I tried, struggled, and fell, never able to escape the poverty and despair I was born into. Without you, I might truly have given up.”

“The night you descended to this world, divine light filled the sky—a meteor streaked across the heavens. You can’t imagine how astonished I was. Though you’re not Thor, or Ares, or Athena—those mighty gods—if given a choice, I would still choose Freya, the goddess of love, as the one to whom my heart belongs forever.”

“Because there are many powerful and wealthy gods and mortals in this world, but the only goddess willing to struggle alongside me, endure poverty, and face all the injustice of fate with me, is you.”

“Because of your innocent smile and unwavering companionship, I have the courage to keep walking the long, dark road of life.”

Back in the dim little shack in the slums, Freya was his only spiritual support.

“Freya, when you chose me as your champion, I swore I would devote my life to honoring you, for you let me see hope and beauty in life again. In my heart, you are heaven’s best gift to me.”

“Freya, one day I’ll become your brush, and every butterfly beneath your pen will become real.”