Chapter 3: “Could you help me pick up my head?”
Fu Heqing lowered his head and looked at the skeleton toy in his arms, a trace of confusion in his eyes.
The instant Mu Mu met the painter’s gaze, his heart sank into utter despair.
He couldn’t feel any body heat at all. Mu Mu only felt that if he actually had a corpse, it would probably be turning ice-cold right about now. At that thought, the entire skeleton toy seemed to droop with a dejected air.
He really was a walking disaster. Was he about to scare the painter away too…?
Mu Mu was terrified—terrified that in such a huge villa, he would end up as the only lonely wandering spirit left behind. If some other ghost came along to fight him for territory, he had no confidence at all that he could help Mr. Painter guard the house.
But the painter didn’t say anything for a long time. He simply looked at him, to the point that Mu Mu grew flustered, staring back just as blankly.
In the end, the painter put Mu Mu back in his original spot on the bookshelf.
Mu Mu didn’t know what the “correct” reaction was supposed to be. After sitting stiffly on the shelf for a few seconds, he copied what he had done before and toppled over again.
This… should stop him from suspecting anything, right? Mu Mu thought uncertainly.
He had already braced himself to fall to the floor. Even if he shattered into pieces, Mu Mu could always put himself back together.
But the painter reached out and caught him in one swift motion.
Lying in the painter’s palm, Mu Mu finally confirmed that he still couldn’t feel a human’s body warmth—but he seemed to be able to imagine what “warmth” meant now.
He wanted to quietly poke the painter’s palm, but he was afraid of frightening him, and even more afraid of misjudging his strength and hurting the painter’s hand.
Mu Mu silently drew back his sharp little joints and curled himself up. Just as his thoughts wandered chaotically about how the painter might deal with him, his view suddenly brightened.
Fu Heqing placed him on the desk, propped against the innermost pen holder, arranging him in a very stable and comfortable position. Then he went back to his own work.
So he just… left?
Mu Mu froze for a moment.
He watched the painter’s departing figure as he turned off the lights and left, watching that perpetually calm, unruffled demeanor, when a sudden desire to become friends with the painter was born within him.
He only had one chance.
If the painter couldn’t accept him, then either the painter would move out of the villa, or he would leave of his own accord—and he would return to that state of being utterly alone.
Mu Mu was very timid and had never really dared to gamble like this before. But this time, the thought came so suddenly, so forcefully, that he couldn’t stop himself from wondering: What if the painter does accept me?
Mu Mu agonized over it until the sky was nearly light before he finally went to turn on the small desk lamp.
He still wanted to take the risk.
So Mu Mu wrote a letter. First, he told the painter that he meant no harm, that he only wanted to be friends, and that he hoped he hadn’t frightened him.
He pulled a sheet of white paper from the printer on the painter’s desk, took a pen from the pen holder, and hugged the pen—whose shaft was only about two-thirds his height—scribbling and drawing on the paper. When he was finished, he carefully folded it up.
Next, he made a very beautiful flower wreath for the painter in the garden. It might be a little small to wear on a human’s head, but it would work perfectly on a wrist—or even on a finger!
Mu Mu wanted to press the letter and the wreath together under something on the painter’s desk, but at the very last moment, he lost his nerve.
He heard the painter going downstairs, the sound gradually drawing closer to the study. Instinctively, he hid his gifts away, then returned to the same spot as the day before.
“Click—”
The study door was pushed open. Only then did Mu Mu realize that his pose was completely different from yesterday’s—but it was far too late to change it now.
The painter entered the study once more and immediately spotted Mu Mu sitting on his desk.
The painter seemed to pause for a moment, as if he had noticed something, yet also as if he hadn’t noticed anything at all.
He reached out and flicked the little bell on Mu Mu’s body, producing a clear chime. That crisp sound instantly eased Mu Mu’s anxiety by a great deal.
Mu Mu’s thoughts suddenly cleared.
The rose bell was still on him…
The painter had complimented the bell for looking nice—and hadn’t taken it back.
This bell… really is a gift for me?!
Suddenly, Mu Mu felt alive again, bursting with energy and excitement.
He didn’t fully understand what the bell as a gift meant, but he seemed to grasp a tiny bit of its significance—vague and hazy, yet enough to fill him with tremendous courage.
Alright, I’m about to have a human friend!
Fu Heqing noticed that the little skeleton seemed to shine with vitality once more. Satisfied, he tapped the bell again, producing a light, cheerful chime, and then carefully repositioned the little skeleton according to his memory of the previous pose.
The next day, the little skeleton was still on his desk, though its pose had been changed once again.
The little skeleton sat by his computer, stretching out its hands, the bones of its fingers bending one by one, forming a big heart above its head.
Fu Heqing made a mental note of the gesture, then restored the little skeleton to its original pose.
On the third day, the little skeleton stood upright, holding a small piece of paper with crooked, wobbly writing that said, “Hello.”
Fu Heqing collected the paper and once again returned the little skeleton to its original pose.
This continued for four or five days. On the sixth day, Fu Heqing habitually went to the study, wanting to see what pose the little skeleton had taken today—but he was met with nothing.
The little skeleton wasn’t on the desk.
Mu Mu felt that the timing was perfect.
No normal skeleton toy would change its morning pose every day. After all these days, even a frog being slowly boiled in warm water would have been cooked by now!
The painter’s study actually consisted of two rooms, separated by a hollow bookshelf, forming a working area and a book storage area.
Mu Mu had long since climbed to the back of the bookshelf, using the books to block the view, creating a small private nook. He placed the gift and his “friendship letter” in the most conspicuous spot on the shelf.
And the entire bookshelf was covered by Mu Mu with flowers—freshly picked from the garden in the early morning, still glistening with dew, giving off a sense of grand ceremony.
Mu Mu sat in the very center of the shelf with his gift, then took off the little bell hanging at his waist, shaking it with a cheerful, rhythmic ding-ling-ling.
Fu Heqing, who hadn’t noticed the skeleton toy on the desk and was about to leave, suddenly heard the crisp chime of the bell echoing through the study.
The sound seemed full of joy, with a lively rhythm, carrying both anticipation and a subtle hint of urging.
The moment Fu Heqing heard the bell, he reacted immediately.
…Finally, it’s going to reveal itself voluntarily?
The emotion in Fu Heqing’s eyes, however, was deep and inscrutable, like ink.
He turned as if to retrieve something from the desk drawer—but then he suddenly heard a very urgent shout from behind:
“Wait!”
Peering through the gap in the bookshelf, Mu Mu had been shaking the bell while watching the painter. Clearly, the painter had heard the bell, yet was turning to leave—this startled Mu Mu terribly.
He panicked for a moment and, not caring whether speaking out might scare the painter, shouted to stop him while trying to squeeze between two books to appear directly in front of Fu Heqing.
But for some reason, the two books seemed welded in place, unmoving, and trapped him tightly in the middle.
Mu Mu was caught in a dilemma and decided to retreat. He pushed back with all his strength.
Crack! His head fell off.
At the same instant, the entire bookshelf was affected, and many books tumbled down with a crash.
Even some fragile decorations were knocked over, hitting and clattering to the floor.
The culprit—trembling—reached out slowly to feel for his head, but it was gone.
In his shocked movements, he also knocked over a vase.
Paper flew through the air, and the floor was left in complete disarray.
Finally, a familiar skeleton head bounced on the floor, then rolled straight through the mess toward the painter.
It lightly brushed against Fu Heqing’s pant leg and came to a steady stop at his feet.
“Mr. Painter, I’m here.”
Fu Heqing heard the boy’s voice again, coming from the back of the bookshelf—nervous and shy, with a faintly pitiful tone.
Lowering his gaze to the toy head on the floor and the chaotic scene around it, the murky, unreadable emotions in his eyes instantly washed away, leaving only surprise and helplessness.
He let out a sigh, about to say something, when the timid voice beat him to it:
“H-hello… um, could you… help me pick up my head?”
“Ugh… I seem to be stuck.”
