tter of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were
not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others
aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine
and false。
Butterfly came up beside me； placed his arm upon my shoulder； stroked my
hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of
friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt。 I couldn’t see his
face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat
down。
We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same
year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly
begin a new life； the pain of beatings we received from the first day； the joy of
the first gifts from the Head Treasurer； and the days we went back home；
running the whole way。 At first； only he talked while I listened sorrowfully； but
later； when Stork and； sometime afterward； Black—who came to the
workshop for a time and left it； during our early apprenticeship years—joined
our mournful conversation； I forgot that I’d just been crying and began to talk
and laugh freely with them。
We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early； light the
stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water。
We recalled an old “master；” may he rest in peace； who was so uninspired and
cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span
of a single day and who； when he saw that we were again looking at the lush