The Leaf of a Tree, the Honesty of Being Honest—Just Call Me Red Scarf

The girl stared incredulously at the little boy beside her, who was munching on a steamed bun with relish, as if still unable to process his outrageous remarks.

Who am I? Where am I? Shouldn’t he be comforting me right now? How did it come to this…?

Before she could gather her thoughts, the boy’s muttering reached her ears again: "Hmm, if it’s just one policy, the payout might not be much. That’d be a waste. Better buy a few more. Then, when you kick the bucket, I can at least get you a decent grave—consider it a brotherly favor."

The girl: "???"

I’m not even dead yet! I’m alive and well! How dare you plan my funeral like this? Is this for real?

Yet, in a strange way, this was the first time she’d ever felt valued—though the method was bizarre, being treated like a "human blood bun" to be devoured.

"Oh, by the way, what’s your name?" The boy stuffed the last bite of his bun into his mouth, chewing noisily as he turned his curious gaze toward the girl lying on the hospital bed.

Still sulking, the girl pouted and huffed, "I’m not telling you!"

"That won’t do. How am I supposed to buy insurance for you if I don’t know your name?" The boy frowned, as if genuinely troubled by this logistical issue.

The girl: "???"

In the days that followed, right up until her discharge, the boy was the only one who visited her. Gradually, the two grew closer, and the girl began to realize that this little boy wasn’t just eccentric—his mind worked on a whole other level.

His thoughts were often ahead of their time—way ahead, even by her standards.

At the orphanage, the girl prided herself on being sharper than the other kids, especially compared to the dull-witted or disabled children around her. Though she never said it aloud, she carried a quiet sense of superiority.

This superiority wasn’t overt; it usually manifested as "cleverness" and "obedience," with an inexplicably lively spark in her eyes. It was why she was often the first choice for prospective adoptive parents visiting the orphanage.

Eyes were the windows to the soul, after all. A single glance could reveal a person’s essence, their thoughts laid bare.

But now…

The girl and the boy locked eyes, and through his "window," she could tell one thing: this kid was hungry again.

"Hey dummy, looks like it’s mealtime. I’m heading out. What do you want? I’ll grab extra for you."

The boy glanced at his "watch," his expression dead serious.

The girl’s gaze drifted to the "watch" on his wrist—and she fell silent. Not because of anything else, but because the boy had drawn it on with a pen.

The time was always "five minutes till food," without fail. At first, the girl had assumed he was mentally ill—after all, most kids in the orphanage had some kind of issue.

Like her, with her heart condition. Since the boy had no visible physical defects, she figured his problems must be internal, just like hers.

But he was unnervingly healthy, sprinting around like a rabbit. If it wasn’t his body, then it had to be his brain, right?

Yet, after days of observation, especially after witnessing his freakishly accurate internal clock, she quietly retracted that theory.

What did "freakishly accurate" mean?

Well, it meant this—him randomly checking his drawn-on watch and declaring it mealtime, only for her to pull out her phone and confirm: yep, he was spot-on.

So… this bizarre little creature wasn’t stupid or mentally ill. He was just too smart, operating on a wavelength so advanced that everyone else struggled to comprehend his words and actions, making him seem odd?

Yeah. That had to be it.

"Alright, go ahead. I’ll wait here," the girl said with a nod. The boy gave a quick thumbs-up and bolted out the door, vanishing in a flash.

Thud.

Once again, the girl was alone in the hospital room, surrounded by the sterile hum of machines. The atmosphere was cold, yet for some reason, it didn’t feel as suffocatingly lonely or hopeless as before.

Now, her days held a glimmer of anticipation—waiting for the boy to visit, wondering what food he’d bring back…

Countless tiny hopes piled up, quietly reshaping her outlook. For the first time, she thought, Maybe living isn’t so bad. Maybe things aren’t as bleak as they seem.

At least… as long as this weirdo was around.

Before long, the boy returned, arms laden with an absurd amount of food, which he dumped in front of her for picking.

The girl eyed the spread skeptically. "Since when is the orphanage this generous?"

"Nah, those old geezers are stingy as hell. Probably embezzling half the donations," the boy replied between chews.

"Then where did all this come from…?" she trailed off.

"Oh, this? I found it. Figured no one wanted it. The kitchen was packed, so I ‘helped’ by taking some of the ‘leftovers.’ No big deal, right?" He shrugged.

The girl: "..."

This is theft. Straight-up theft.

But in the boy’s world, it magically transformed into some noble act of salvage. "Figured no one wanted it"? Who even says that?

No wonder the other kids at the orphanage looked malnourished while this guy was thriving—he’d been hoarding all the goods for himself!

So… his so-called "secret scavenging spots" were real after all?

Her eyelid twitched. She didn’t know whether to scold him or applaud his audacity. On the surface, his methods seemed unreliable, yet somehow, they inspired an odd sense of security.

The orphanage wasn’t a home. Any warmth there was a facade.

As the boy had explained during their chats, the staff only kept them around for government subsidies and charity handouts. He’d even seen the director’s relative driving a BMW once…

The dark side of human nature should’ve been crushing. But in the boy’s retelling, it took on a twisted humor—his words stripped the despair away, leaving behind something almost… bearable.

The girl nibbled on the food the little boy had brought her, then seemed to remember something. She blinked and looked at the boy before asking, "What's your name?"

"Just call me Handsome."

The girl: "..."

Pouting slightly, she said, "I'm being serious."

"And I'm not?" The boy blinked innocently.

"A name isn't important. You can call me the Red Scarf Hero Who Does Good Deeds Without Leaving a Name, or you can call me Brother Cheng, or even—"

"Oh, fine. If you don’t want to say, forget it. I was just thinking of naming you as the beneficiary on my life insurance, but since you’re not interested, never mind," the girl said offhandedly.

Hearing this, the boy’s eyes instantly lit up. He grabbed the girl’s hand earnestly and said with utmost sincerity, "What are you talking about? My name is Ye Cheng—Ye as in ‘leaf,’ Cheng as in ‘honest.’ Just call me Brother Cheng. Oh, and make sure you don’t misspell the beneficiary name. I’ll give you my ID number later—double-check it, okay?"

The girl: "..."