Murphy slowly turned around.
Less than three steps behind him stood a little girl, about seven or eight years old.
She wore a small floral dress, washed until it was slightly faded but impeccably clean. Her small, fair feet were bare, her toes as round and lovely as pearls as they rested on the cool grass.
Her soft, flaxen hair was meticulously combed into two neat braids that hung over her shoulders, with small, faded bows tied at the ends.
Her face was small and delicate, her skin a fine, porcelain white in the faint moonlight. A pair of large, emerald-green eyes stared unblinkingly at Murphy. Her pupils were as clear as the purest forest spring, reflecting his black-clad figure and the deep night beyond as her long eyelashes fluttered.
"Look…" The little girl's voice was clear and sweet. "My flower… isn't it pretty?"
She tilted her head slightly, her hands behind her back as if hiding some precious treasure.
