"Hello, I'm Owen. Robert Owen. You can call me Owen." He smiled, his voice soft and breath-thin, like wind sliding through paper screens.

"Forgive the way I looked at you before," he said, gaze steady like a still pond. "You're… a little unusual."

He paused, then added, "No guests have crossed our door in a long time, like a gate sealed by frost."

He pointed at the empty chair beside him, an island of wood in a quiet sea. "Sit. Let's talk."

Ye Weibai didn't answer; a hush settled between them like morning mist. Owen met it with a gentle smile. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing." Ye let a small smile rise, then nodded, and flowed with the current as he sat beside Owen.

Philia tittered and hopped into a chair at the side, light as a sparrow. The three gathered around a pale wooden table where tea steamed and cakes waited like clouds.

The little girl poured him a brimming cup, warmth curling up like incense. Ye lifted it and took a small sip, tasting spring water and clay.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Owen pointed at soft white cakes, rounded like moon-slices.

Ye looked at the cakes, their sheen like polished wax.

As a guest, he knew he should taste one, a courtesy as old as rain on stone. Yet those inviting cakes looked like white candles cast as food, and hunger fled like a shy deer.

Strangest of all, his belly felt hollow as a drum, a dark room without a lamp.

"No, thank you." He refused at last, the words light as falling ash.

Owen's look shifted, subtle ripples in a red lake. His twin scarlet pupils caught a gleam, then stilled when Ye met his eye.

Philia puffed her cheeks, a small squirrel stuffing nuts, sulk swelling like a tiny storm. She disliked speaking when upset, the stutter a pebble in her throat.

Ye chuckled, a twig tapping the window, and teased, "Looks like someone's very confident about her work."

"Hmph. If you d-don't eat, then—" Philia kept her cheeks puffed, chipmunk stubborn.

"—then I'm the one missing a masterpiece, right?" Ye finished, smile easy as drifting willow fluff.

Her look said he'd hit the mark, an arrow thudding soft into straw.

"Mm—!" She frowned at him, then remembered something; her mouth curved up like a crescent. "Xiao—Xiao—Xiao Bai!"

"Hey, the same trick twice is boring," he said, grinning like a fox in shade.

She burst into giggles, bells chiming in a breezy lane. For children, small things bloom big, like dew on grass at dawn.

"Haven't asked yet—" Owen's quiet voice cut through, clean as a knife on silk. He looked at Ye and said, "How should I address you?"

"I—I know!" Philia shot up her right hand like a sapling to the sun. "C-Call him Ye—"

"Phi." Owen said her nickname softly, his gaze a steady lantern. "Is your homework done?"

"Uh—" Philia blinked, eyes like red glass in dusk.

"Go finish it." His finger flicked her forehead, a pebble plinking in a pond.

"F-Fine…" She covered her brow and puffed again, then hopped down and pattered off through the corridor, a brook between two rooms. At her door she turned, her red eyes bright as garnets. "W-When I'm done, c-come find Xiao Bai, and p-play~"

Meeting that sparkled gaze, Ye nodded gladly, sunlight in the gesture. The girl shut the door with a smile soft as a petal.

He turned back to Owen. "Ye Weibai—my name is Ye Weibai."

"Then may I call you Ye?" Owen asked, voice as mild as shade.

"Either is fine."

"Then, Ye." Owen’s face grew solemn, sincerity burning in those red pupils like banked embers. "It may sound strange, but thank you for coming, for stepping into our home."

"For me and Phi, your visit is a real comfort, like fire against thawing snow."

Ye paused, then smiled, a quiet crescent. "Don’t mention it. I just arrived and have nowhere to go, like a leaf on a new river."

"You’re not asking why?" Owen’s curiosity rose like steam.

Ye’s smile turned gentle, the calm before rain. "If you want to tell me, I’ll listen."

Owen straightened a little from his stoop, a reed resisting wind. He studied Ye. "No wonder Philia opened to you so fast. Ye, you’re considerate. And—"

He held Ye’s gaze, words drifting slow as pollen. "And—there’s a scent on you—that’s very pleasant."

Half his face lay under newborn sunlight, one eye washed in gold, the other veiled in dusk. He sat where light and dark touched, a border stone, and fixed his eyes on Ye.

Odd words, but the meaning was clear as a shallow stream: he liked the ease in Ye’s presence, a warmth like tea in cold hands.

By rights, Ye should smile and meet praise with humility, a bow to courtesy. Yet the sound of Owen’s whisper slid into his ear, and a chill rose along his spine like frost crawling up bark.

It felt like a blade’s cool edge kissing his neck, thin as ice. It felt like a slick tongue dragging across skin—clammy, viscous, and wrong.

"Are you cold?" Ye only sat a touch straighter, but Owen’s senses were a hawk’s. He noticed at once, concern rippling out. "Early spring winds still carry winter’s teeth."

Right then, wind slipped in from outside and stroked Ye’s sleeves, a faint chill like shade beneath bamboo.

The wind chime under the eaves answered with a cold, glassy note, winter lingering like a ghost.

Ye’s face cleared with a small dawn; he glanced at the courtyard and smiled. "Yeah. Spring wind’s still a little cold."

"It’ll warm soon," Owen said, nodding, smile gentle as a brazier’s glow. His eyes, however, clung to Ye’s turned neck, unblinking, twin pupils trembling like moth wings.

He didn’t see this: though Ye’s lips held a smile, his black-and-white eyes were winter water, all ice and no ripple.

"That’s better, right? Not so cold now."

After latching the window, Owen returned to his chair with effort, each motion a reed bending under weight. He braced a hand on the backrest and twisted down, weakness showing like a pale seam.

He finally settled and reached for the blanket at his side, draping it over his legs like snow on a quiet field. Breathing a bit hard, he looked at Ye. "Old trouble. Pardon the sight."

Ye shook his head, dismissal soft as a fan’s wave.

Owen answered with a mild smile and raised his cup, letting a thin sip slide down like warm rain. "Ye, tell me why you came here."

"Me?" Ye paused, silence a small lake, then said, "No special story. Just a homeless traveler, a shadow between inns."

"Homeless… your family—sorry." Owen’s apology fell like ash on coals.

"It’s fine." Ye smiled at himself, a tilt like wind-warped grass. "I’ve never met them since I was small."

"Then…" Owen hesitated, a bead on a string. "Did you come to Xibei Village alone?"

"Ran into some bad luck. Spent all my money. No one wants to trail a penniless kid," Ye said, helpless as a stray dog in rain.

"I see…" Owen stared, thought pooling like twilight.

With the window shut, sunlight stood at the threshold, refused like a beggar at a stern gate. Only a dim wash seeped in, and the room drowned in dusk.

Only Owen’s red eyes glowed in the dark, two coals under ash, steady and deep.

"What is it?" Ye asked, voice a small ripple.

"Sorry." Owen blinked, returning from distance like a boat from fog. "I was thinking about my family… it stirred a few things."

Ye refilled his cup, water murmuring like a brook, and leaned a little, the shape of a listener carved in quiet.

Owen nodded thanks with a smile, wet his throat with tea, then lifted those red eyes and held Ye’s. His voice turned almost a whisper, like wind across reeds. "Ye, you know… the Monstrosity, right?"