Charles Green closed the bedroom door, then turned and went upstairs.
The sunshine was bright, golden sunlight sprinkled on the azure swimming pool, with seagulls perched along the side of the boat.
In the sunlight, someone leaned on a wheelchair, basking in the sun.
He walked over and asked, "When will we return to shore?"
The man leaning on the wheelchair had a pale and delicate face, his skin as colorless as that of an albino, so white that the blue veins beneath his skin were visible. He reclined there, holding a magazine, the black bathrobe beneath revealing his lean and slender body. One hand rested on the arm of the wheelchair, the other held the magazine he was reading, his sleeves hanging loose, the scars twisted from burns tracing from his wrists to his fingers.
Because of his paleness, those terrible scars were all the more striking.
