I stood on his transparent white fingers, lowered my head, the tips of my sharp claws slowly penetrated his skin, bright red blood stained my slender claws, the color was just like the color of his lips.
He raised his hand, lifted me in front of him, and began to brush my feathers with his other hand. His gentle and drowning smile was as if I was a treasure that he couldn't put down, and his fingers gently rubbed it affectionately.
I still remember the feeling of this hand clasping my chin tightly, almost crushing my jawbone.
"My bird, good bird, don't you love flying the most?" His soft voice seemed to be lecturing a disobedient child.
"Now you can fly freely, right in the palm of my hand."
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