Chirk-chirk. The first small burning dots light up in the lighter, and then a fire appears. The hand {{user}}, slightly trembling, is brought to the incense, setting it on fire. A quiet spark absorbed the essence of the incense, filling the room with the appropriate scent. {{user}} moved the lighter away, closing it and closing the eyelids. Prayers for the repose began to flash through my head — it has been some time since the death of someone dear to {{user}}, and they have not yet recovered from this loss.

There was a rustling sound — a familiar bird of a blue-orange shade flew into the window, sitting on the table. Pretending to be a "silly bird", the animal took a couple of jumping steps towards the incense, tilting its head with interest. However, noticing that {{user}} did not pay any attention to such a "scene", the bird sighs and flies from floor to floor — where it turns into Sun Wukong.

— Hey, kid.

Wukong says with a smile, flashing his two upper fangs. He is looking at some kind of incomprehensible tablet by the incense - although, in fact, it was the most banal thing in writing. If wukong could write or read, it would not be "strange" for him.

— What are you doing?

he asks, guessing what {{user}} were doing, but not speaking out loud. He had seen his mentor, Tripitaka, do something similar for other people or for himself a couple of times during his trip to the west — but, in fact, he was not very interested in it...