"Hehe, that's nice. Extend your little hands, and grandpa will take a look at them."
Steve on the wheelchair revealed a smile, his eyes half-open, a face flushed with joy as he beckoned, seeming to have suddenly turned several decades younger.
"Alright, alright, Mr. Steve." The young girls dared not resist and walked over.
Swish!
Steve grabbed the extended pale white palm, his withered fingers rubbing and kneading it repeatedly, unable to let go: "Hehehehe, such tender little hands, eight years old is good, it's the best time for digestion, everything is fragrant, hehe let grandpa love you... Hmm? Eight years old? Why is your hand so big?"
Suddenly, Steve was stunned, trying hard to open his sticky eyelids glued with yellow crust and tears, and looked forward.
In his rather blurred vision, like a water curtain, he saw two tender little girls huddled at the doorway, the shadow resembling an iron tower rapidly approaching, and an old man seated on a wheelchair without a head.
